Repetition
by and she knew love
Summary: You've taken a bullet for me, you're on the ground, and I can't stop the bleeding. Again.
1. Chapter 1

**Weird. I've never written like this before, but that's how it came out. I'm a little stuck on the next chapter of "Shatter" so I wrote this instead. Tell me how you like it. Reviews always welcome. **

**Disclaimer: I don't claim anything of Bones. **

* * *

I'm at your apartment. I don't know why. Rationally, I have case files in my hand to bring to you. But I know the files are just an excuse. It would have been easy—and much more efficient—to just email you the papers. But I haven't seen you in a couple of days, and it's lonely. _I'm_ lonely. Not that I'd ever admit it to you.

You open the door and smile that mile-wide smile, but Hannah's face behind your shoulder takes the brightness out of my returning grin. You don't notice. You ask me what I'm doing here, and I wordlessly hold out the files.

"You left them on my desk," I say. "I thought you might want to look over them."

"Thanks, Bones," you reply, taking them. But your eyes are confused because you know I have no reason to be here. You _must_ know, because I know it too. I'm suddenly glad that you opened the door fully clothed and that Hannah seems to have been doing nothing more than washing dishes; anything else, and I might not have been able to take it. But you don't know that, and I'm not admitting that to you, or anyone.

"Anything else?" you ask. There was a time you would have invited me in. There was a time you would have gotten me a drink and insisted I come in to review the files with you, even though we both knew we'd end up talking and watching your TV more than anything else. But not now. Now, you look at me with those still-friendly, but not the same eyes and ask me if there's anything else.

I smile and shake my head. "No. I'll see you tomorrow."

You nod simply and start to shut the door. "Okay. See you later, Bones."

But just before the door closes completely, you suddenly yank it back open, your eyes wide and your right hand reaching across your waist for your gun. I freeze in confusion for just a second before an arm slams into place around my neck, choking me. Instinct kicks in instantly, and I slam my elbow back, scoring a solid hit, but the arm doesn't loosen enough. Before I can move again, something cold presses against my temple.

By your wide eyes, I know already what it is. "Let her go," you say calmly, quietly, but I see the chaos in your eyes. I see the way you shift on your feet and grip your gun like you're about to explode.

"Drop the gun," comes an unfamiliar voice, dark and decidedly masculine. "Drop the gun or I blow her brains out."

"Let her go," you repeat, more fiercely this time. The emotion in your eyes is bleeding into your voice, and I breathe as evenly as I can manage, scrambling for a way to break free. Behind you, Hannah moves silently to the side, her eyes wide and a phone pressed to her ear. Good. She's calling 911. Now if only we can hold out until the police arrive.

"How does it _feel?"_ the man holding me snarls. "Seeing your loved one in danger? Helpless to stop it? _Knowing_ she's going to die at the hands of a cold, cruel bastard?"

"I'm not helpless," you answer coldly, your grip on the gun tightening. "If you don't let her go, I swear to God I'll put a bullet between your eyes."

The man behind me yanks my head back, digging the barrel of the gun into my forehead. I try not to whimper, but I must make a sound because your eyes harden in that dangerous way that tells me you're on the edge. The edge of the man you are now and the sniper you used to be.

"You don't remember." The man shifts, the gun swaying a little on my skin. "You don't know me."

"I know you're holding a gun, which counts as assault with a deadly weapon," you snarl back, the look in your eyes sparking to catch fire. "I know you're threatening my partner, which is the same as threatening me. I know if you don't let her go, I'm going to put you six feet under so fast you won't even have time to blink."

You're intimidating when you have that look in your eyes. Usually, you're friendly and outgoing and easy to approach. You have the boyish charm and that easy smile that people are attracted to. You have countless friends and a beautiful girlfriend and a son who loves you. But when you have that look in your eye—the one that has nothing but darkness in it—it's easy to forget all that. It's easy to believe that you are perfectly, perfectly willing to pull the trigger without thinking twice.

"You killed my son," the man holding me rasps, his voice raw with pain and fury. "Right in front of me. You killed him."

No recognition flickers in your eyes, but I remember abruptly. I remember standing tensely in the parking lot of a high school where you'd cornered the suspect. The boy had barely been eighteen. He'd planted a bomb in the school, and he had the trigger in his hand and a feral smile on his face. You and a squadron of SWAT and FBI agents had swarmed the area. You told the boy—first in soothing tones, then in sharp ones—to stop this madness, to drop the trigger and come in. He'd laughed and gone for the button, and you'd fired. One bullet. That was all it took.

It was only afterwards that we discovered his father had been standing in the parking lot, just behind the police tape. You'd forgotten to extend your condolences right then because you were numb, in shock, hating yourself for having to shoot the boy. A _boy._ But you'd always intended to go back, to apologize, as if words could ever be enough.

Now you don't remember. But I do. "Cary," I say, barely breathing. Your eyes flick over to mine anxiously, and I repeat, "Cary Green."

Recognition floods your eyes just as Cary Green's father growls, "So you _do_ remember. You remember how you shot my son right there in front of me, with barely a blink."

"Your son was a terrorist," you say through clenched teeth. You sound callous, uncaring, but I can see the pain in your eyes. You are one of the few people I can read, and the subtlest changes in your face make sense to me. You're hurt, guilty, anguished about the boy. But Cary's father just digs the gun in harder to my forehead because he doesn't know you like I do.

"Let her go," you repeat, your voice steely. "If you came here for that, it's me you're picking a fight with, not her."

I hear a chuckle in my ear, and the man's beard brushes my cheek. "Let her go? I don't think so, Agent Booth. I think it's about time someone showed you what it's like to lose someone you love."

Your eyes find mine. You hold my gaze for a long moment, and I wonder with a racing heart what you'll do. You'll get us out of this, I know it. You always find a way out. It's just a matter of _how._

Still holding my eyes, you say very quietly, "You're wrong, John. I don't love her."

I know what you're doing. You want to distance me from yourself, make me a less logical target. You want him to think that my death won't hurt you, and it's logical, what you said. But it still stings, irrationally. _I don't love her._

John (how did you remember his name?) shakes his head, and I can hear the smile in his voice. "That's not going to work, you know. I see how you look at her."

Your eyes leave mine, and when they flicker over to John, they're cold and dispassionate. "She's my partner," you say, like it explains everything.

"You love her," John insists, his agitation clearly growing. "I'm not _stupid._ You don't look at your _partner_ that way."

You shake your head. "Now that's where you're wrong. She's just my partner, John. Now that you know that, can you really shoot her?"

"Of course I can." The gun digs into my temple, and I wince. You just manage to hide the briefest flicker of fury and fear, but I see it. "Of course I can. See, Agent, I know that you _care._ You care about anyone and everyone."

"I cared about your son too," you say quietly.

"_Don't_ talk about my son!" John snarls, his breath hot against my ear. "_You_ don't get to talk about my son!"

"I cared," you repeat simply. "I feel sorry every day. There's not a day that I don't think about what I did and hate what happened. But I needed to do it. There were kids in that school—"

"So you could just shoot him?" John screams, and I feel the barrel press painfully into my head. "You had to shoot my son just above the heart, _kill_ him?"

"He saved lives," I say, pleased when my voice comes out strong. "He saved someone else's son."

"Shut up," John retorts harshly. "Just shut up."

Your eyes lock on mine with the same message. _Don't talk, Bones. Trust me._

Trust you. Of course I do. Even after all this time, even after Hannah, there's no one I'd rather have defending me.

"We can talk this out," you suggest lowly. "No one needs to die."

"Yes, someone does," John answers savagely. "_She_ does. I need to see—I need to see that in your eyes. I need to see the desperation, the grief. I want to look into your eyes and watch you watch me put a bullet in her brain."

You swallow hard, determination solidifying in your gaze. "You can do that," you say calmly after a moment. There is the slightest tremor in your voice, but you push past it. "You can do that, but you won't be seeing any of that in my eyes."

"Really?" John sneers. "Are you sure about that?"

A tense, tense moment passes. You swallow again, and a bead of sweat trickles down the side of your face even though it's a comfortable seventy degrees in the hallway. I catch your eyes and think, _I trust you, Booth._

You lower your gun. "Do it then."

Somewhere behind you in the apartment, Hannah gasps. Your flat suggestion surprises John enough for his grip to slacken, and I throw my head back. His nose cracks, and he lets out a curse, and I manage to yank his arm off of me. I lunge forward further out of his reach, toward you, and you throw up one hand to catch me while your other hand raises your gun. It's over then, I know, because you're an excellent marksman, and you very rarely miss. But your eyes widen, and suddenly, you shove me bodily to the side, my name on your lips. You're in front of me now, shielding me, and I hear _Bones!_ and then a single, deafening gunshot.

Just one. I know that's all it takes.

I wheel around in time to see you bring up your arm and fire. It's an easy shot in close quarters, and you hit him in the chest, in the heart. He's dead before he hits the ground, and I let out a sigh of relief. The first gunshot must have missed.

But then you turn and stagger into the doorframe, the gun dropping from your fingers, and horror floods me just as the realization hits.

You've done it again. You've taken a bullet for me again.

Damn it. Damn it. Damn _you._

I catch you under your arms as you fall, your full weight causing me to stagger. "Bones," you gasp, your eyes wide, your fingers clenching my hand weakly.

"Don't talk," I pant, laying you down and hurriedly unwrapping my scarf from my neck. The bullet entered just below your fifth rib, and, from the trajectory, doesn't seem to have struck any major organs. Blood is spilling from the wound, and I press my scarf against it with trembling fingers. It's Pam Nunan all over again, and the look in your eyes is the same.

_Relief._ You saved me. You're relieved. But my panic is just starting.

"You're going to make this," I breathe hollowly, and I should say it again, but I can't. Because the last time I repeated those words again and again, you didn't make it. So instead, I just press down on your chest and force back the unnecessary, unwelcome tears.

I'm barely aware of Hannah dropping to her knees beside you. Her hands hover over your chest indecisively, and I snap out, "Did you call the police? Did you call an ambulance?" I'm too terrified to be sorry when she flinches at my tone.

"Yes," she answers. "But not the ambulance. I'll call—" She cuts herself off to grab the phone and punch in 911, and I turn my attention back to you.

Your eyes are on mine, and fear swamps me at the way your gaze is distant. "Booth," I call, my voice shaking just as badly as my hands are. "Booth, stay with me."

You swallow hard, but blood comes up, running down your lips and face. I freeze for a second, panic escalating.

The scientist in me rises, pushing back the extraneous emotions. "The bullet nicked a lung, and you're going into shock. I need you to focus, Booth."

You grip my sleeve with weak fingers. "Bones…"

"Don't talk," I order.

"Bones," you say anyway, and annoyance surges in me, warring with the terror. Amazing. Even in a crisis, you can irritate me. You grip my sleeve tighter and whisper, "I didn't mean it. You know I didn't."

"I know," I answer, even though I have no idea what you're talking about.

You're fading. Damn it, damn it, _damn it_. You've taken a bullet for me, you're on the ground, and I can't stop the bleeding. _Again._

"Stay with me," I gasp out. "Don't…you can't…not again."

It's hardly articulate, but you _know._ Your eyes are still locked on mine, and you squeeze my hand, barely. I know you're going to make it. You're Seeley Booth. You've been shot, burned, blow up, sick, locked in, scarred, broken, bleeding, and you've always, always pulled through. So you will now. You _have_ to.

"Bones," you gasp, your voice barely audible. I try to hush you again, but you're talking again. "Didn't mean it."

"I know. I know." I have no idea what you're talking about. "Stay with me, Booth. The ambulance is almost here. Stay with me."

And my throat closes up. I can't speak anymore. I can just press down on your chest, feeling your heart pump itself to death under my fingers. I can just grip your hand so tightly it must hurt. I can just watch the light slowly bleed from your eyes.

Somewhere, finally, an ambulance's warbling sirens wail in the distance.


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you for your support, as always. I'm glad to hear the first person is working for the most part; I was a bit worried about that. Reviews are always welcome.**

**Disclaimer: Bones is not mine.**

* * *

You're in surgery. They won't tell me how you are, or they can't. I sit numbly in the waiting room, staring at a magazine with pictures I can't focus on. I hear the gunshot echo in my head and see your blood slick on my fingers. I feel your heartbeat stutter as I press frantically for a pulse.

Angela arrives only ten minutes after Hannah calls. I can't make any calls myself because I can't think of anything but you. Afterwards, I'm glad I didn't call because if I tried to speak, sobs would have come out instead of calm words. As it is, I look up in surprise when Angela, Hodgins, and Cam rush in, their eyes wide and worried.

"How is he?" Cam demands. "Did they stabilize him?"

I look at her with a blank stare to hide all the fear and anger underneath. "I don't know. They haven't told us anything."

"Where's Hannah?" Angela asks.

Hannah. Of course they ask about Hannah right after they ask about you. She's your girlfriend, so she's priority number two. I force the momentary swell of jealousy away—this is absolutely no time for that—and answer, "She went to get some water. She's not taking it well."

"Of course she isn't, poor thing," Angela sighs. Her gaze sharpens on me, and she adds, "But you're not taking this any better, are you?" Her tone is knowing, and so are her eyes.

No, I'm not. I'm probably taking this worse than Hannah is, because she isn't the one you shoved out of the way and took the bullet for. She isn't the one who lived through this before, the one who stood in the waiting room as the doctors told her you didn't make it, the one who stood at your funeral rolling her eyes because if she didn't act dismissive, she'd break. I remember the ripping pain when I realized you were gone, and we'd never have Thai again, or fling jokes around that made no sense to anyone but us. I remember it now and suppress a shudder, because I know I can't do it again. I can't lose you again.

"Sweetie," Angela says, touching my arm, "you can talk to us, you know."

"I know." My voice is calm. Somehow.

"What happened?" Cam asks, her eyes still wide with disbelief. "Hannah told us a little, but she couldn't get through much…"

I swallow and slip on the scientist façade. Facts—I can deal with facts. "John Green, the father of a boy Booth killed, came to take his revenge. Apparently, he wanted Booth to experience the loss of a loved one, so he grabbed me. Although he was mistaken to do so; if he'd wanted to kill Booth's loved one, he would have had more success grabbing Hannah."

Angela lets out a long, half-exasperated sigh. "I'll just let that one go for now. Keep going."

"Well, Booth tried to talk him down, and he got shot." I shrug, as if that's all there is to it. Conspicuously, I leave out the part where you pushed me out of the way and shielded me with your body. That isn't important.

"God," Angela breathes. "He's going to be okay, you know that, right, Bren?"

She's trying to comfort me, and I know it. It doesn't help, though.

"The bullet hit a lung," I say evenly, forcing myself to consider you as a victim on my forensic table rather than my partner. "He likely suffered a spontaneous pneumothorax." At Angela's blank stare, I explain, "His lung would have collapsed. Medical assistance was delayed. There must be complications in the surgery, and logically, his chances of survival—"

And I can't do it. I can't say it. Your chances of survival are low. As a scientist, as a doctor, I know it. I can estimate how much blood you lost there in the hallway, how much blood coated my fingers before the paramedics managed to lever you onto a stretcher, and I know you lost too much. But you're Seeley Booth. That _must_ count for something. For all the years I've known you, that has always counted for something.

"Sweetie," Angela says softly, running a comforting hand down my arm. "Have you—have you eaten anything? Gotten a drink?"

I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak. Food and water are the furthest things from my mind right now. From the moment they loaded you into the back of the ambulance, from the moment I raced after the paramedics in my own car (because they would only let one of us in with you, and we both knew it would be Hannah), I've only left the waiting room once, and that was to scrub your red, red blood off my hands.

"I'll get you guys something," Hodgins says quietly, touching Angela's elbow gently before moving off. Cam takes a seat, her posture just as tense and worried as mine is. Angela sits on my other side, shooting me anxious looks. But it's not me she should be scared for; it's you. _You're_ the one who's been shot. I'm fine. I'm fine.

Hannah returns, and Angela rises again, greeting her with soft words I can't hear. There are tears in your girlfriend's eyes, and I swallow hard and look away. It's okay for her to cry. She's your girlfriend. You love her. She loves you. It makes perfect, logical sense for her to break. But not for me to break. I'm your partner. Your friend, on good days. I need to stay strong, to hide the fact that the thought of losing you again makes my chest tighten and my heartbeat stutter. Hannah can cry enough for the both of us.

_He's going to make it,_ I think to myself. _He's Booth. He'll make it._ How many impossible situations have you escaped from before? Dozens. Hundreds. I know it, and you know it. So remember that now, Booth. Remember that it'll take more than one father's anger and a lump of compressed metal to stop your strong, strong heart.

The doors to the waiting room opens again, and our heads snap up. I hope and dread it's a doctor. What if he comes out just like last time to tell me that it was too late, there were too many complications, you lost too much blood? What if he looks at me like last time, somehow sensing that the news hits me the hardest even though Angela and Cam are the ones crying, and says, "I'm sorry"? As if _I'm sorry_ can take it all back. As if it can miraculously take away this numb shock that I can't breathe under.

But it's not a man in scrubs; it's my father. How he knew to come, I have no idea. But I realize suddenly that, barring you, he's the one person I want to see. So I stand as steadily as I can and cross the room to him, knowing that as my father, he knows me. He knows, and he will never judge.

"Honey," he says gently, eyes searching mine. "How's Booth?"

I shake my head. "He isn't out of surgery yet." _But he'll make it. He's Booth. He'll make it._ I can't say what I think because there are no facts to support it.

Dad looks at me with those knowing eyes and asks, "How are _you_?"

Not _how is Hannah?_ With my father, _I'm_ priority number two.

"Can we talk outside?" I ask, knowing my voice is small and quiet.

He takes my arm without a hint of hesitation. "Sure, sure. We'll just step out here."

We move into the empty hallway beyond. It's almost one in the morning, so most of the day staff are gone, leaving a ghostly night shift. The lights are dim, but not so dim we can't see. Silently, we walk a little ways away from the waiting room (but not so far that I won't be able to hear a doctor coming with news of you) and stop.

"How are you?" he repeats, rubbing a hand up my arm.

I take a shuddering breath. "I can't do it again," I whisper. "Lose him. I can't do it again."

"Oh, honey." With a great sigh, he wraps me into his warm strong arms, and finally, the tears come. It has always, always been okay to cry with him. He is the only person who will hold me and listen and ask no questions. So I let everything go.

"It's my fault," I whisper, burying my face into his shoulder. "It's my fault Booth got shot."

He doesn't question me or try to rationalize. He just asks, "How?"

"The shooter grabbed me, but I managed to pull myself away. Booth—" I close my eyes at the memory of your shout. "He pushed me behind him and he—he took the bullet for me. It should have hit _me_." It's the second time you're lying there in surgery in my place. It's the second time you've risked everything for your partner. I think I hate you for it.

"Shh," Max whispers, rubbing comforting circles between my shoulder blades, like you used to do when I needed a guy hug. The familiarity hurts more than it helps, and I clench my father's jacket with both hands, needing to steady myself, needing to get under control again. But I can't, because it isn't just any friend or colleague lying in there. It's _you._

"I'm sorry," I cry. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." I'm sorry you're in there again, I'm sorry for going to your apartment because I was lonely and you were the only one I thought of, I'm sorry for always endangering your life. You have Hannah, you have Parker, and you have happiness. I'm sorry for making you give that up because you're so damn selfless and I'm not fast enough. I'm sorry the bullet didn't carve its way through _my_ rib cage, _my_ lung, where it was meant to be. I'm sorry I can't even be grateful to you for saving my life; I can only stand here hating you so badly that my fists shake with fury, hating that you couldn't just leave me alone, hating that you'd leave me here in the hallway _again_ waiting to hear if you've made it or not. As if it wasn't hard enough the _first_ time.

"Shh, shh," Max soothes, kissing the top of my head gently. "It's going to be okay. He's strong. He'll make it. He's going to be okay."

I know you're strong. Of course I know. And I also know you'd better make it out of this, because if you somehow don't, I'll kill you. It's irrational, it's illogical, but I will. I'll drag you back from hell (because how could you go to heaven for making me feel like this?) and shoot you again, right in the heart. And I won't miss, because you know I'm an excellent shot in my own right. I'll shoot you dead, and I'm so distraught right now that redundancy is absolutely not my concern.

"Do you want something?" my father asks gently, after the worst of it subsides. "Water? A sandwich?" He smiles and raises an eyebrow. "A gun?"

My lips pull up into an automatic smile, but it feels stiff and unnatural. "The shooter's dead. Booth shot him."

He winks. "I'm sure I could get us access to the morgue. They wouldn't object to a few extra holes in his body, would they?"

My smile widens, and I laugh softly, wiping away the tears. "Of course they would. They would start a whole new investigation as to how he sustained bullet wounds post-mortem."

Max shrugs and sighs. "Well, it was worth a try."

Either way, I feel better. Sometimes Angela's right—it's worse to hold everything back. I feel slightly calmer, more like myself again. So, with his guiding hand at my elbow, we make our way back to the waiting room, waiting for the news.

* * *

It's another two hours before the door opens again. This time, I _know_ it's the doctor, and everything sense in me sharpens. I steel myself for the blow, wondering what the doctor can tell me that I haven't already thought of myself. You died in surgery. The pneumothorax had been caught too late. You suffered a sudden pulmonary embolism. Your heart gave out. The bullet wound cause too much damage.

_You're dead, you died, you're gone._

The doctor opens his mouth, and I turn away, just in case.

But the first words out of his mouth aren't _I'm so sorry_ or _There were complications._ He isn't extending his sincere condolences. He's saying something about how they've removed the bullet and repaired some of the damage done. He's saying something about how you'll need your rest, about how you're not completely safe yet, but I can't hear clearly through the roar of relief and sharp joy. I can't help but shudder, the sheer relief threatening to break me. You haven't left me. You fought. This time, you'll pull through.

Hannah asks if we can see you, and the doctor agrees, as long as we keep the meeting short. I can't tell if I want to go or not. On one hand, I want to leap for your hospital room, to watch your heartbeat monitor spike, to touch you and know you're real and alive. On the other hand, I don't think I can keep myself together if I see you now, and the last thing I want to do is crumble in front of Cam and Hodgins and Angela and Hannah. Especially Hannah.

In the end, I follow the rest of them to your room, because I'm afraid if I turn away now, the next thing they'll be telling me is that you didn't survive after all. I'm afraid there's another criminal out there who promised to attend your funeral. I'm afraid of the FBI whisking you away for their own purposes before I can see you, before I can convince myself you're alive.

The room is small and dark. Hannah gasps aloud when she catches sight of you, so pale and still in the bed. My eyes rake over you, searching for something, anything. I watch your chest rise and feel myself take the first full breath in hours. I hadn't been aware of breathing shallowly, but the sudden rush of air now leaves me slightly dizzy, and I lock my knees as I continue to look down at you. The covers are pulled up to your waist, and a standard hospital gown covers any hint of the gunshot wound. I know if I pull up your shirt, there will be a small, white square of bandage just under your fifth rib on your right side. It'll be on the opposite side of your other scar, from the first time you threw yourself in the way of a bullet meant to be mine.

"Hi, Seeley," Hannah whispers, taking your still hand. She squeezes your fingers gently and says, "I'm here."

I don't reach for you because I'm just your partner. Hannah holds your hand as I hold my relief and weariness and anger. Angela stands a little ways back with Hodgins' arm around her shoulder, and Cam comes forward next to me to touch Booth's other arm gently. They all say something, even my father. Everyone except me, because there's nothing to say. _Thank you_ will never be enough, and _I hate you, I hate you_ is hardly appropriate. I just let Hannah say all the things I wish I had the courage to say (_you'd better get better soon, I'm here for you, I love you_) and tuck my hands in my coat pockets silently.

You don't wake up, and the doctor says the anesthesia will take a few more hours to wear off. For now, the quiet beep of your heartbeat monitor is enough for us. Hannah kisses your forehead and smoothes back your hair as I watch wordlessly.

_Booth,_ I want to demand, _why did you do it? You have so much to live for. And I'm so sick of hurting you._ But I don't say anything because you wouldn't hear me anyway.

Eventually, when we've all reassured ourselves that you're alive and breathing, Cam suggests that we all go home and get some rest. Hannah, predictably, refuses to leave your side. She's loyal, and she loves you. I know that she's a genuinely good person, because you wouldn't have fallen in love with her otherwise. Still, a part of me wishes she was gone. A part of me wants to be the one sitting by your bedside, not her.

But obediently, I let my father take my arm, let him pull me from your hospital room, away from you.

Because Hannah is your girlfriend, and I'm just your partner.


	3. Chapter 3

**I'll get back to replying to reviews starting on this chapter, I promise. I just wanted to upload this for you guys first. Hope you enjoy, as always. **

**Disclaimer: Bones does not belong to me. **

* * *

I don't sleep. I lie in bed, still, silent, but I can't sleep. I'm so terrified of getting that call, the one where someone with a cold, clinical voice tells me that you passed away because of complications. I'm tempted to disconnect the phone lines, but I don't because it's illogical. Just because I don't receive the call doesn't mean it won't be real. And if I never receive the call, unplugging the phone lines would just be illogical. Paranoid.

I keep my cell phone under my pillow, volume set as high as it can go.

As I lie there, I can't stop my mind from wandering, and as expected, it wanders to you. I relive again those terrible moments as you slipped away as I held you. I relive that voiceless horror at the thought of losing you, that voiceless horror of _actually_ losing you those long years ago. I am terrified of losing you, but I don't know what I'll do if I _do_ get that call. Will I go on, like last time? Will I attend your funeral only reluctantly? Will I stand there beside your coffin, staring hard into the uniformed guards in hopes of seeing your face there again? And after? I've never considered an _after_ without you. I can't consider it now.

To keep those dreaded tears from surfacing again, I think of the good times we had. I remember like yesterday the day we met, the kiss we shared, how you were obnoxious but charming at the same time. I remember those comfortable nights spent on your couch or mine, watching an old classic you couldn't believe I hadn't seen, eating the Thai you'd brought over and sharing the fortune cookies. I remember how I'd fallen asleep on your shoulder more than once, and how you'd laid your head on mine and we'd wake up like that, with cricks in our necks but smiling.

The good memories hurt almost as badly as the darker ones. Those are things I'll lose if I lose you. Maybe we haven't been doing those things as often since you came back from Afghanistan with Hannah, but we're still friends, aren't we? Last week, you came by with Thai, just to make sure I ate. You didn't stay long, and we only watched some news on the TV, but you didn't forget me. We're still friends, even now. If I lose that…if I lose _you_…

I take a deep shuddering breath and struggle to hold back the tears, even though there's no one to see. I can't cry, because I'm just your partner. Hannah will cry. Hannah can cry. But partners don't cry for each other. Friends don't either, do they? Friends may worry and fret, but they don't cry over each other. Of all those times you saved me, of all those times I woke up in a hospital room with you sitting by my bedside, you never cried. So I won't cry now.

I can't stay in bed anymore with these dark thoughts, so I wrap the blanket around my shoulders and make my way to the living room. There is a stack of case files on the desk that I was supposed to look at tonight before…

I swallow and sit down, taking the first file from the stack and flipping it open. Immersing myself in work has always been the answer before, with my father, with my mother, with you. So I flip through the pages fully expecting that sweet release, that absorption of science that demands complete concentration. But I'm distracted, and for the first time, a stack of case files and pages of terminology aren't enough to force the fear, the emotions, away. I open a second file and find a photograph of the crime scene, the red blood staining the carpet eerily, horribly familiar. It's _your_ blood, suddenly, and the scene is your hallway with you gasping, trying to breathe with a collapsed lung. I'm holding your shoulders, cradling your head, pressing my scarf against your chest and whispering, praying, _Don't die—I can't, not again—don't leave me_—

With a gasp, I jerk myself back from those memories and slam the file shut. The tears are back, and I swallow hard, wiping furiously at my eyes. You're going to be _fine_, damn it. I saw you at the hospital, and though you were a far cry from healthy, you were breathing and your heart pumping. I have nothing to worry about.

I hear your voice in my head suddenly, incredibly, as clear as if you were standing right next to me. _Don't get so worked up about nothing, Bones. I'll be fine._

Auditory hallucination. Definitely a sign of stress and sleep-deprivation. Possible mental trauma. Pushing the files away, I stand again and fetch a glass of water in the dark kitchen, drinking until the burn of tears at the back of my throat is gone, drinking until my hands have stopped trembling. There is, rationally, nothing to worry about. You've already made it past the worst of the danger, and Hannah is with you. You aren't alone.

I shouldn't be worried. Logically.

The shrill ring of my cell phone cuts through the dead silence of the apartment, and my heart leaps into my throat. I'm running without consciously deciding to, and the phone is in my hands before it rings again. For a long moment, I stand there in the darkness, staring at the unfamiliar number flashing on the screen, wondering if I'm ready for this. Wondering how I'll take the news, if I'm even capable of taking it. Am I emotionally prepared to hear the cold, clinical voice on the other end? Am I simply overreacting?

Should I just set the phone down and pretend to be asleep, to keep the news away for as long as I am able?

No. As much as I'm terrified, as much as my hands are trembling, I can't stand not knowing. So I yank open the phone and answer breathlessly, "Doctor Brennan."

"Temperance?"

Not a dispassionate voice trying hard to seem sympathetic. A warm, familiar voice full of fear. I recognize Hannah's voice in relief, but the fear in her voice makes my own fear wash over me twice as strong.

I swallow hard and ask evenly, "Did something happen?" _Tell me nothing happened to you. Tell me you're fine. _

"No—yes—it's hard to explain. He woke up about twenty minutes ago—he had a nightmare or something, and he was sweating and delirious—"

"The doctors?" I ask sharply. They must have been able to do something for you. They must have something to help.

"They gave him a mild sedative to knock him out, but I'm afraid it'll happen again. It was—scary, it was scary. I've never seen him like this. He seemed terrified out of his mind."

"Did he say anything?" I ask, more calmly now that I know you're okay. "His nightmares may have involved something he saw in Afghanistan. Maybe one of his soldiers was killed?"

"I know it has nothing to do with that," Hannah answers quietly.

I pause in surprise. "How can you be so sure?"

"Because it was _your_ name he kept calling out."

My breath hitches, and the phone feels suddenly heavy in my hand. You called for me? It makes no rational sense. You have Hannah and Parker. You most likely have a stronger emotional connection to Cam than you do to me. If you had nightmares about your loved ones, _those_ would be the names to cry out. _Those_ would be the people you called. Not me. Not your partner.

"I'm sure it means nothing," I assure Hannah, after a moment of silence. "The doctors should just keep him sedated until he's better."

"I want you to come." She says it firmly, almost commandingly. "I don't want him to wake up like that again. If he needs you sitting here by his bedside all night to keep him calm, then you're going to do it." She sighs briefly, her voice losing some of its sharpness. "Please, Temperance. I don't want to see that look in his eyes again."

_What look?_ That hard look in your eyes that tells me of the sniper you must have been? The nervous, apprehensive look you had when you realized your coma-dream was so far from reality it was almost humorous? That look in your eyes when you realized John Green was perfectly willing to fire the gun at my head?

No. I don't want that look back in your eyes either.

"I'll be there soon," I breathe hurriedly before shutting the phone. For a second, I just stand there, wondering if it's wise to see you again so soon. What if I look at you and all those emotions overwhelm me? What if those horrible, illogical, unreasonable tears well up, in front of you, in front of _Hannah?_

But I can't leave you. As conflicted as I am, leaving you alone to your dreams and your nightmares has never been an option.

The drive to the hospital passes in a blur. I don't remember parking or walking up the stairs to the third floor. I just remember standing outside your hospital room. Hannah's back is to me as she sits in a plastic hospital chair, your limp hand in hers. She reaches out and strokes your cheek, then rubs your hand. Has she been here all night, since you got out of surgery?

I knock quietly on the doorframe, smiling slightly when Hannah glances up.

"Hi," she says softly. Her eyes are red-rimmed, and I see she's been crying, just as I thought.

"Hi," I return, glancing at you as I move into the room. You're just as I left you, pale and still. A light sheen of sweat covers your brow, and I wonder if you're dreaming again.

"Thanks for coming," Hannah says. "I just didn't want him to wake up and be that scared again."

"I wanted to come," I answer truthfully. "Has there been any change?"

She shakes her head and looks back down at you. "A nurse came in a few minutes ago to check on his vitals or something, but she didn't say anything."

I turn to pull the other hospital chair up to the other side of your bed and sit. After a moment of hesitation (I've never been good at concern and empathy, after all; that was—_is!_—your area), I say, "Maybe you should…take a break. You look tired."

She gives me a weary smile. "Of course I'm tired. My boyfriend was shot right in front of me. They're still not sure if he'll survive."

"Oh." Right. It's not as if I can force her to get a drink, and I understand her completely. If I were your girlfriend, I would be immovable from your bedside as well. If I were your girlfriend.

We resort to silence because it's too uncomfortable (at least, for me it is) to talk. I run my eyes over your face, studying your strong zygomatic arch, your well-structured jaw, your pale lips that are illogically talented at kissing. Quickly, I shake away those thoughts and hope it's too dark to see the automatic blush that spreads across my cheeks.

"Do you have feelings for him?"

The abruptness of the question and the question itself shocks me so much I can't do anything but stare over you at Hannah, wondering incredulously if it's a joke. But she's not kidding; her eyes are as serious as I've ever seen them. Serious and sad.

"No." I force the word out, hating the way it sounds coming out of my mouth. _Do I have feelings for you?_ No, I'm your partner. We're friends. Yes, I care about you. Yes, I would find it impossible to cope if I lost you again. But no, I don't have feelings for you, not feelings beyond friends.

Your girlfriend looks unconvinced. "Did you ever have feelings for him?"

"No," I repeat, more strongly this time. It's not entirely true, because I think I _did_ have feelings for you at some point. When you confessed to me, when you told me you were the gambler, I hadn't been ready. But in Maluku, I think I realized some things, not the least of which was that I might have returned your sentiments. But when we got back to Washington and you had a picture of a blond reporter on your cell phone, I realized that our feelings stopped at friendship because they would never be any more. I wonder if I ever loved you. I wonder if that crushing ache at the thought of losing you is what love feels like.

Hannah stares at you, but she's talking to me again. "You're special to him," she says. "I don't know how. I asked him once if there was anything between you two, and he denied it. I…I don't know if I believe him. There's something about you two, you know? Something _different_."

"Booth and I were never lovers," I answer honestly. Not for lack of trying on your part, though I'd never tell her that. Clearing my throat, I add, "We're good friends though. We were always friends."

Hannah shakes her head. "I don't know what to think. I can't deal with it right now. It's just…He's an FBI agent. He's in the line of fire every day, and I _know_ he's going to get hurt some time. I just didn't think…" She takes a deep, shaky breath. "I don't know what I would've done if you weren't there. How—how did you know to do all that stuff? I thought you worked with bones, with dead people…"

"The study of forensic anthropology involves the study of the human anatomy," I reply, shrugging slightly. "I picked up some things here and there." I don't tell her that I've been through this before. I don't tell her that you _died_ on me before, and that after I realized you were alive again, I researched bullet wounds and the damage they could do, just in case. Just in case.

With a quiet sigh, she shakes her head and rubs her eyes tiredly. "I don't know. Sometimes…sometimes it just seems like he's not mine, you know?"

"No, I don't know," I answer truthfully.

She sighs again. "He's my boyfriend. He loves me, he said so himself. But sometimes, it feels like his heart isn't in it. I don't know why."

"Booth is very serious about relationships," I tell her, forcing the note of accusation from my voice. You have never been a person to do things halfway. I know that once you get started, you don't stop until you finish, until you have given whatever it is all that you have. That she would doubt you like this, that she would think for a _moment_ that you are uncommitted…I feel a flash of annoyance bordering on anger.

Before either of us can say anymore, you stir in your sleep. It isn't a natural movement in your sleep; we know that the instant we spot the furrows in your brow and the way your breathing catches unevenly. You toss to the other side before either of us can move, and I start up out of my chair, afraid you'll tear open your wound. Your chest heaves as your breath quickens, and I reach for your arm, intending to shake you awake.

"Bones!"

My name coming off your lips and the sheer terror in your voice stop me in my tracks. I don't have to glance over at Hannah to feel her confusion and fear. Your pulse jumps, and the heartbeat monitor beeps accordingly.

"Bones!" you cry again, your face contorted. "Bones—you—god_damn_ it, I'll kill you! I'll _kill_ you!"

Hannah's face pales, and she glances over at me. "Is he…he wants to _kill_ you?"

"No," I say, and I know I'm right because you've had this nightmare before. Once when we fell asleep on your couch, and once when you dozed on the couch in my office after an exhausting case. It scared me the first time, startled me the second. Now, I wonder why the dream is back, when it clearly hasn't cropped up since you returned to Washington. Is it the stress? Is it what just happened?

"Booth," I say firmly, shaking your arm. "_Booth_." Another shake. "Booth, wake up. You're safe. _I'm_ safe." When you don't respond, I snap sharply, "_Booth!"_

You jerk up as if you've been electrocuted, and even just out of sleep, your hand reaches automatically across your waist for your gun. I take your arm firmly but gently, not wanting to startle you, but you instinctively lock your hand tightly around my wrist to still my movements. For a moment, we freeze like that, staring into each other's eyes and breathing.

And then you take a shuddering breath and let it out as my name. "_Bones_…"

"I'm fine," I tell you, using my free hand to gently pry your fingers away from my wrist. "You were dreaming again."

You fall back into the pillows, your eyes wide and your breathing still erratic. The heartbeat monitor leaps unsteadily. "God, Bones, I…what…" Your eyes run over me again, as if searching for injuries, and relief flushes across your face. "You're okay."

"_You_ were the one who got shot," I remind you, an edge of anger to my voice.

"Shot." You sound confused for a second before realization and remembrance flits across your expression. "You're okay?" you breathe out again, glancing me up and down.

"I'm fine," I reply, annoyed. "_You're_ the one everyone's worried about."

"Right," you murmur, letting your head drop back to the pillow. "Right." After a moment of hesitation, you ask, "What happened? After?"

_After._ "The ambulance got you into surgery," I reply evenly. "They got the bullet out and repaired what could be repaired. You need rest."

"What were you dreaming about?"

Both of us start; both of us, it seems, have forgotten Hannah was in the room. Although, to be fair, you likely never realized it in the first place.

"Hannah," you breathe, releasing my hand. I hadn't even realized I'd been holding onto you until your warmth is gone. I try not to miss it as you pull away.

"Hey." Her smile is slightly forced, and I don't miss the way her gaze darts up to me before landing back on you. "You okay?"

"I feel like crap," you say with a wince. "But getting shot usually feels like that, so I think I'll be okay."

"What were you dreaming about?" Hannah repeats, curious and suspicious all at once. I'm almost completely sure she suspects something about our past. Even if we never engaged in a sexual or romantic relationship, I'm fairly certain she won't be happy to find out you propositioned me once, or that you kissed me before, three times at the least.

You manage—you just manage—to hide the flash of guilt in your eyes from her. But I see it, because I've known you for a long time.

"Something from a while ago," you reply ambiguously. "Just the dangers of the job."

Hannah's eyebrows raise. "And it had something to do with Temperance?"

You shoot a glance over at me, clearly startled, and I explain uncomfortably, "You might have called out my name once or twice."

"Oh. Right." You take a deep breath and then try to hide the subsequent wince. I move toward you automatically before stopping as Hannah reaches out to take your hand in what is probably supposed to be a comforting gesture.

"You can tell me," she says softly. "It's okay, Seeley."

"Right," you mutter again. "It's just…it's kind of hard to talk about."

To the side, I swallow, because I know how hard it is to talk about _that_ incident. I probably have more nightmares about it than you do.

You still seem shaken and upset by the dream though, and entirely unprepared to talk about it, so I say as steadily as I can manage, "I was buried alive in a car and left to die by a woman called the Gravedigger." Your eyes snap up to mine, instantly anxious, but I continue anyway, "It was…hard." So much worse than hard. Terrifying. Full of gut-wrenching terror that _still_ leaves me panting and sweating in my bed sometimes.

I swallow again and finish quickly, "Booth got me out."

Hannah's expression has morphed from suspicious to compassionate, and she rubs your hand gently. "I'm sorry."

"Bones had the worst of it," you mutter. Then, visibly, you pull yourself together and force a smile. "You look like hell, Hannah. Have you been sitting here this whole time?"

Your girlfriend smiles sheepishly and nods. "I just couldn't leave you."

With that smile, you lean forward and kiss her chastely on the lips before saying, "Go splash some water on your face or something. And get a drink and some food. I don't want you passing out and ending up in a hospital bed right next to me."

Hannah smiles back and squeezes your hand briefly. "I love you."

You nod and reply, "Love you too."

You share another quick kiss before Hannah rises, nods to me, and disappears out of the room. Awkwardly, knowing for the first time what it means to feel like the _third wheel_, I stand next to your bed and stare at your badge the nurses must have left on the bedside table. They obviously didn't leave your gun lying there, and I conclude that Hacker must have requisitioned it until you recover.

"Thanks," you say quietly, startling me out of my thoughts.

"_Thanks?"_ I echo incredulously. "_You're_ the one who took the bullet for _me." _

You grin wryly, glancing down at your torso, to where the injury is. "Gee, Bones, I hadn't noticed." At my clear annoyance, your face softens, and you amend, "Thanks for coming, you know. The first time I woke up, I could tell I kind of freaked Hannah out."

"You were delirious," I point out. "You remember waking up the first time?"

You shrug. "Not too clearly, but I remember that you weren't there."

"Hannah called," I explain, standing there somewhat uncomfortably with my coat in my hands. "She was afraid for you, so she wanted me here to calm you down."

"Thanks," you say again. "For calming me down, I mean. I know dealing with me after those dreams isn't the easiest thing in the world."

"There are easier things," I agree. "Like breathing. Or beating you at chess."

Just as I'd intended, you let out a laugh, but it ends sour when you cut off with a grimace and press your hand against your side.

"Does it hurt badly?" I ask concernedly, resisting the urge to reach out and touch you.

"Not badly," you answer, though your teeth are clenched.

I frown. "Sorry."

"No." You shake your head and pull your hand away from the wound. "Don't be sorry. It's fine."

I want to say _thank you_. I _should_ thank you. But I can't. Somehow, the words stick in my throat, because part of me _isn't_ grateful. Part of me absolutely hates you for doing this again, not because you're hurt but because of a completely selfish reason: you've scared me again, and I can't take it. I still feel brittle, as if the tears are lurking just below the surface, and I hate feeling unstable.

You seem to sense some of my conflicting emotions, even if you don't know the reason behind them. "Come here," you say, holding out a hand. I eye you questioningly, and you say, "Let me just…I just need to hold you for a second." Something dark flashes in your eyes, and your voice wavers. "Please."

I give in to the impulse to touch you then, moving toward you before I'm fully aware of it. You grab my wrist and, in a sudden movement, pull me down for a tight hug.

"That was close," you whisper in my ear. "Too close." You're trembling. Almost imperceptibly, but your fingers are shaking ever-so-slightly as they grip my shoulders.

For a moment, I stand there stiffly, wanting both to push you away and to pull you close. Your words bring back the memory of Green's cold gun pressed against my forehead, though, and I need to feel warm. Safe. So my arms raise to wrap around your shoulders, and suddenly I'm clutching you like you're a lifeline, my grip on your hospital gown tight. All the fear, all the terror, of waiting tensely for news of you suddenly surges to the forefront, and it's all I can do to not succumb to helpless tears as I feel your heart beating solidly in your chest. I'm afraid—so afraid—of feeling you slip away between my fingers. I'm so afraid of losing you.

"Yes," I breathe back, and you must hear the unshed tears in my voice because your arms tighten around me. "Yes, it was too close." Far too close. Before I know what I'm saying, I'm whispering furiously, "Don't do that again. Don't do that to me again."

"Sorry," you answer softly, your voice tight with emotion. "Sorry, Bones. I'm sorry."

"_I'm_ sorry," I return. There are so many things I want to say, but what comes out is just a slightly choked, "Just don't…"

I don't know what I'm asking you, but you know anyway. "Yeah."

It's enough. We've always communicated like this, in half-sentences, each of us able to know intuitively what the other is asking. Is this what it means to have a _connection?_ A connection like the one Angela is always insisting exists between me and you? I wonder if you do the same with Hannah.

You release me, finally, but your left hand stays where it is on my shoulder. After a moment, your fingers run down my arm, eliciting a shiver that I try to hide, and you take my hand.

"You'll be here when I wake up?" you ask, a bit sleepily. The medication and exhaustion must be kicking in again in the absence of the adrenaline surge from the nightmare.

"Hannah?" I ask. "She's your girlfriend." _She should stay. She's the one._

"So?" you say drowsily, clearly half-asleep already. You drop back into your pillow, your eyes fluttering closed.

"So…" I repeat, wondering why you don't seem to understand that it's your girlfriend's hand you should be holding, not mine.

"You're my partner," you murmur, as if it explains everything. As if being your partner gives me the right to grip your fingers tightly and want to never let go.

"I'll be here," I say finally, softly, because I can't say anything else. How can I refuse you, when you've done something like take a bullet for me without batting an eye?

I settle into the hard hospital chair still holding your hand, remembering all the times you sat here when I was in the bed. I hold your hand because I'm afraid to let go. I hold your hand because I need to feel your warmth, your pulse, beneath my fingers. I hold your hand because I'm your partner, and somehow, that makes it okay.


	4. Chapter 4

**I'd love to read your thoughts on this, so leave some at the end :) **

* * *

I wake up to find a hospital-order blanket draped around my shoulders and my back stiff from the hard plastic chair. A few sleepy blinks clear my eyes, and I notice that bright sunlight filters in through the window in the room. Morning.

"Thought you'd sleep forever."

Your voice makes a shiver of relief run through me, and I turn to see you sitting upright in the bed, the covers pulled up to your waist. Good. _Good._ You don't know how _relieved_ I am to see you sitting there, pale and weak but alive. You've made it through the night; statistically, your chances of survival are much higher now.

"Illogical," I tell you, stifling a yawn. "Everyone wakes up eventually. Sleep is impossible to maintain as long as _forever_." Turning to reason and calling you out on your assertion makes everything feel better. Makes everything feel more…normal.

You laugh softly, wincing infinitesimally as the movement pulls at your injury. You keep smiling though, probably thinking I don't notice, but I do. I notice and feel a wave of guilt at having put you there, having let you nearly die for me.

"Hannah?" I ask, moving the chair a little closer to your bed in case you try anything more strenuous than talking.

"She went home to freshen up a bit," you reply. "She was here until about an hour ago, but you fell asleep a while before that." At my glance at the blanket, you add, "She got you a blanket. It got a bit cold at night."

"Thank you," I say, just a bit awkwardly. Taking the blanket at the corners, I fold it into a neat square and set it on the bed next to you. That done, I look back up at you and ask, "How do you feel?"

You groan and stretch your arms briefly. "Like crap, but that's normal." There must be something negative in my expression—guilt, remorse, or something like it—because you amend hastily, "I actually feel pretty good, you know? I'm not feeling too bad."

"Liar," I accuse, but I'm relieved all the same. You're acting completely normal, trying to reassure me when _you're_ the one lying in the hospital bed. There has likely been little permanent damage then, and with any luck, you'll be walking out of the hospital with nothing more than a scar.

You peer closely at me for a long moment before asking, "How are _you?"_

I look at you, startled. "Booth, you were the one who got shot."

You nod. "I know. But you're the one sitting in that god-awful hospital chair with red eyes and circles under your eyes so dark it looks like someone punched you."

"Red eyes?" I repeat, instantly self-conscious. I turn away from you slightly, not wanting you to see that I cried over you, that this affected me much more than it should have affected a regular friend. I can feel your worried gaze on me, asking questions I pretend not to notice because I don't have answers.

"It's okay," you say softly, reaching out to touch my shoulder.

"I didn't cry," I mutter stiffly. "In case you were wondering. Red eyes are symptoms of exhaustion, that's all."

"Hey," you repeat, "it's okay. Okay to cry, I mean."

"I'm your partner," I point out. That alone explains everything. _Partner_. A word that can hold so many meanings, some of them intimate and some of them purely professional. We have always fallen closer to _intimate_ than professional on the spectrum, haven't we? But when it matters, when _partners_ is the only defense we have, partners to us just means work colleagues. Sometimes it's an excuse, and sometimes, it's the only thing keeping me from kissing you. But you don't know that.

"We're friends first," you say gently, after a moment. "It's okay."

No, it's not. It's absolutely not okay, because crying is just the beginning. After crying comes breaking, and after breaking comes hurt. The loss of control, the loss of _logic_ and reason—I can't handle that. You, of all people, know that.

You sense my reluctance to talk and switch off to another subject. "So, how are my x-rays and whatnot? Am I okay?"

Relieved, I grasp the facts and tell them to you in my composed scientist voice. I tell you about your pneumothorax, about some of the complications of your surgery, about how the doctors have ordered you to bed rest for weeks to come. It's easier this way, pretending you're a victim in a case, a stranger. It helps me compartmentalize until all those extraneous emotions have been shut away, until there's nothing left but the bare, base truths.

You listen as you always do, not really hearing and understanding all the terminology I use, but smiling all the same. I used to think that you did that to humor me, to pretend that you were smarter than you really were by nodding along like you comprehended. But now I know you can read those subtle hints like no one else I've ever met, read the look in my eyes and hear the facts in the rise and fall of my voice. You know what I'm saying even when you don't.

"That's good," you say finally when I finish. A smile curves your lips, and you add, "So I'll be out of here soon and back in the field with you in no time."

"No," I say sharply. You probably said that to reassure me, but I can't think of you going back into the field again so soon. I can't think of you facing off criminals, you holding your gun, without remembering the terrible sound of a gunshot and feeling your weak, tired pulse under my fingers.

"No," I repeat. "You need bed rest. You can't leave the hospital before the doctor approves you, you can't work on cases when you're supposed to be recuperating, and you can't skip taking medication when you want to. You have to follow the doctor's orders explicitly."

For a moment, you look surprised. Then the smile returns, and you tease, "Is that an order, Bones?"

"I'm serious," I insist, my brow furrowing. "If you don't follow orders, you won't recover as quickly. And…" I clear my throat and stare at the pillow over your shoulder. "And your welfare is important to me."

Your smile widens, and you assure me, "Of course I'll do all that. I _always_ do that."

I fix you with a skeptical look. "No, you don't. There was that time you snuck out of the hospital prematurely—"

"_Once_."

"—and the time you forgot to take your medication and passed out in my office—"

"Again, _once_."

"—and the time you went back to a crime scene that you weren't supposed to be working on, grappled with the assailant when he showed up, and tore all your stitches."

You put on a pout and get that look in your eyes that people always liken to a puppy: your eyebrows rise, your lips turn down in a slight frown, and your eyes widen until you look like a little boy whose candy has been stolen from him. Unruffled, I stare firmly back at you, and after a moment, you lean back into your pillows and sigh. "Why doesn't my cute and innocent look work on you?"

"Maybe because it isn't as cute and innocent as you think," I suggest, not bothering to tell you that you _do_ look extra pitiable when you stare at me like that, and that if I hadn't been able to withstand this gaze of yours, you probably would have taken advantage of me years ago. Luckily enough, my concern for your health overrides any instant surge of pity and affection I feel for you. Lucky for both of us.

You grin and reply confidently, "One of these days, Bones. One of these days, I'll get to you."

I hope not. For both of our sakes.

"I'm starved," you say with a yawn. Your arms automatically reach up to stretch, but a spasm of pain shoots across your face.

"Don't stretch," I order, pushing your hands back down. "Try not to engage in any strenuous activity that involves moving your body; it will only exacerbate your condition."

You manage a weak smile. "Right. I just won't move then."

"That would probably be best for a while," I agree, standing. "Do you want me to get someone to bring you breakfast?"

"Yeah, if you don't mind."

After a second of hesitation, I reach down to squeeze your hand. You glance up at me in surprise before squeezing back, your grip stronger than it was the night before.

"Don't…" I take a breath, wondering what to say. Finally, I just say, seemingly illogically, "Don't go anywhere."

You smile at me, reassuringly but seriously all the same, because you know I'm not being ridiculous. You know that it's always a possibility that you would need to fake your death _again_, for some far-flung reason that is enough for the FBI but will never be enough for me. It's happened before.

"Nothing in the world could make me budge from this bed," you say lightly. "Especially because I seem to be strapped down." You glance down with a wry smile at the restraints around your waist.

I smile too and explain, "After you woke up the second time from the nightmare, I was afraid you'd have another dream and tear your stitches. The nurses brought some restraints."

"_Sure_," you say, rolling your eyes. "You just wanted to make sure I didn't run off out the window while you weren't looking."

"We're three floors up," I say, smiling because I know when you're joking. "You'd probably break your legs or your arms, depending on how you land."

You groan. "Well, _that_ sounds appealing. Never mind then. I'll just have to sneak out the regular way when your back's turned."

"You aren't going anywhere," I say sternly.

"Okay, okay," you laugh, holding up a hand. "Fine. I can't argue with you when you've got that voice on."

Satisfied, I leave the room to find you something to eat.

The first harried-looking nurse tells me shortly that she's busy and that Room 212 is not her responsibility. The second one says breakfast should be coming any minute now and offers nothing else before hurrying off. The third nurse tries to quickly dismiss me, but I narrow my eyes at her and begin a lecture on how important timely nutrition is, especially to a person who has recently sustained a wound and extensive blood loss. I throw in some high-end medical terminology as well, since you tell me that people are always more intimidated when I use multi-syllabic words. By the time I've firmly established that I know much more about the body than the nurse does (which makes it a mystery as to how she obtained her degree in the first place), she agrees timidly to get me a breakfast tray without delay.

Five minutes later, I'm heading back to your room with a tray laden with food in my hands. Reaching your door, I'm trying awkwardly to maneuver the tray to one hand so I can open the door when I realize there are voices inside.

A glance through the little window panel in the door reveals a blond head bent over your bedside—Hannah's back. She's facing away from me and obscuring your view of the door so I have time to step back out of sight.

She's back already? I don't know why I feel disappointed—I have no _right_ to feel disappointed—but I do anyway, irrationally. It's just that it's been so long since I…since I had you to myself that I miss it. I miss _you_.

But you aren't mine. I shouldn't be feeling this way. If losing your company has made me jealous of Hannah, then logically, losing Angela's company to her marriage would make me jealous of Hodgins. But that thought is so absurd that it's almost comical, while the thought of being jealous of Hannah is all-too-real. Irritatingly real.

I'm about to set the tray down on one of the carts outside your door when I realize that I can hear you two talking from outside. I'm half a second away from shutting down the spark of curiosity and leaving when I hear some familiar words.

"You know, traditionally, when you come visit someone in the hospital, you bring a gift."

At this, I stop, curious and surprised. It's almost exactly what I remember Hannah saying to me months before, except it isn't Hannah saying it this time; it's you. Where exactly are you going with this?

Hannah's surprised; I can tell even with her back to me. She stiffens ever-so-slightly and pauses for a long moment. When she shifts slightly, I can see part of your face, and I see that you've pulled out that disarming, supposedly-innocent puppy-dog look again.

"Where did you hear that?" she asks finally, her voice uncertain. I lean forward, curious about the answer too.

"A little bird told me," you answer mysteriously. "Anyway, where's my gift?"

Hannah casts around for a suitable object, and I can see that her face is flushed with embarrassment. "I'm sorry, I didn't think you'd…" She trails off and sighs apologetically. "Well, I'll get something right away. Next time I come, I'll get something, promise."

"You don't need to buy anything," you say oh-so-innocently. It's that "innocent" edge to your voice that convinces me you have a hidden plan behind this.

"What do you mean?" Hannah asks slowly.

You smile your charm smile and say, "Well, it gets pretty bright in here, and it bothers me, so maybe you could give me your sunglasses."

My brow screws up in confusion, and I press closer to the glass pane in the door, wondering what you need with her sunglasses.

"Mine?" Hannah laughs amusedly. "They're girl's sunglasses. I'll just run down and buy you some new ones in the gift shop."

You shake your head adamantly. "Nope, I want yours. I like them."

Hannah and I both pause, and slowly, after a long moment, she takes her pair down from her head and hands them over. "I have no idea why you'd want them, but if it makes you happy, Seeley," she says, her tone puzzled, "you can have them."

"It doesn't make me _happy_," you say, though your tone implies the direct opposite. "It's tradition. Now you don't have to bring me anything else." You slide the sunglasses onto your face, and I have to smile, even through my confusion. You look so ridiculous in those, so _unmanly_, that it's impossible to keep a straight face. Hannah seems to feel the same way, as she giggles and adjusts them on your face until they're straight.

"You look great," she teases. "Like a superstar."

"I think I should be fed like a superstar then," you grumble. "I'm starving."

Abruptly, I remember the tray I have and think it's a good enough time as any to intrude. So I push open the door and announce, "Got your breakfast, Booth."

Your face lights up with a wide smile, and you say, "There you are, Bones! I was starting to think you got lost."

I set the tray down on the collapsible table in front of you. "It would be a challenge to get lost in such a densely populated area, Booth. And I got you an extra pudding."

Your smile widens even further, and you reach for the dessert. "Ah, _yes._ Just what I needed."

Shooting you a stern look, I slap your hand away and point to the soup. "Eat your main meal first, Booth. Getting real sustenance into your body is important in the healing process."

Predictably, you groan and whine, "But, _Bones_…"

Hannah laughs in amusement. "She's a doctor, Seeley. You should probably listen to her."

I smile and correct, "Technically, I'm a scientist."

You shake your head at both of us and mutter, "Spoil-sport," before reaching for the soup. As hungry as you claim you are, you only manage to finish half the soup and some of the orange juice. You look so tired by the time you're done with those that I remember all over again what you're doing in the hospital bed in the first place, and I feel too guilty to have the heart to stop you when you reach for the pudding.

I realize eventually that the water jug by your bed is nearly empty. "I'll just refill this," I say, reaching for it.

Hannah reaches for it just as quickly, snatching it up before I can take more than a step. At both of our questioning looks, she explains, "It just seems like Temperance has been doing everything for you, Seeley." She smiles and sighs. "I guess I just want to feel useful too."

"Sure," I say, returning her smile. "Of course. I'll just wait with Booth then."

With a nod, she leaves the room, and you watch as the door closes. After a few moments, your eyes sharpen like you're forcing your weariness away, and your gaze settles on me.

"What?" I ask.

"Here," you say, and I look down to find that you're offering me the sunglasses you solicited from Hannah.

"These are…" I start, intending to remind you that they're yours but not wanting to give away that I was eavesdropping. "…not mine," I finish eventually.

You give me that wry grin of yours and nod. "Yeah, but they used to be."

Startled, I glance down again to realize that, yes, they _were_ mine. They're the ones I gifted Hannah when she was shot; it's just been a couple of months, so it takes me a second to recognize them.

"How…?" I meet your gaze, the question unspoken.

"I learned about Hannah taking your sunglasses," you say seriously. "You love these glasses, and it wasn't right of her to take them like that."

"I'm sure she was trying to be friendly. I didn't mind," I say, wondering at the same time why I'm defending her. Wondering why I'm asking questions when I should just be taking those sunglasses and never letting them go ever again because they're that important to me.

"_I _mind," you reply, taking my hand and curling my fingers around the glasses. "They're just…_yours_, Bones. I gave them to you, not to Hannah."

And that's why they're special, in the end. It's because they were the first gift you ever gave me, even if you just bought them on the fly because I was shielding my eyes from the sun with my hand. They're good glasses too, having weathered years of use. They've been with me since the beginning, since _our_ beginning, and it feels right to have them back.

"Thank you," I say quietly, looking down to examine the pair. The tinted lenses seem perfectly fine except for the one scratch on the left side from the time you and I chased a suspect down an alleyway and ended up with a couple of bruises each. Hannah appears to have taken good care of them, and for that, I'm grateful.

"Well?" you ask, your tone lighter. "Let's see them on you."

"Booth—"

"Oh, come on, Bones, is it too much to ask? I just want to see if they're still good."

"Fine." With a harrumph, I slide the sunglasses on my face and look down at you. "How do I look?"

"Like a model," you say, beaming. "I knew right from the beginning that those glasses fit you."

I take the pair off and roll my eyes. "They were the only ones the vendor was selling."

"That exact _pair_," you insist. "It was that exact _pair_ that fit you."

We stand and stare at each other in silence for a moment. You look so tired, and I know that you're fighting to stay awake. You shouldn't be, because sleep is one of the best things you can do to recuperate more quickly. I'm about to tell you that when you open your mouth again.

"I'm fixing things, Bones," you say, quietly and seriously. "Just…I want you to know that I'm fixing things."

"Things?" I repeat, confused. "Things like what?"

"The center," you answer after a moment. "I'm fixing the center."

_The center._ Us. Our partnership. Is that what you're fixing?

Your eyes have already closed and your breathing evens out before I can ask any further. I'm left standing there with my sunglasses in hand, staring at your tray of half-eaten food and empty pudding containers. And suddenly, abruptly, I realize that I'm holding it: the first piece. The first step towards fixing it, and fixing _us._ These glasses are the start, and…and where does it end from here?

How far does _fixing it_ go? 


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** Yay! I actually managed to update! I hope there's still someone out there following this story, and thank you to whoever is still reading this. I'm so sorry for the lengthy delay (LENGTHY delay). Hope this chapter meets your expectations - I think you might like it :)

By the way, thank you to whoever reviewed "Blink and It's Over" and whoever reviews this. No, I did not forget to reply to you. Something is up with FF; I keep getting an error every time I try to reply to anyone. I'm very sorry about that, and I promise you, I do read and appreciate every review.

Enjoy!

* * *

The day they decide to discharge you, I don't go to work. I know that logically, I shouldn't be worried about anything. The worst of the danger is over, the rest of your recovery is easy cruising from here. But I can't help the churning nervousness that fills me. I can't help imagining terrifyingly possible scenarios, like a car hits you on the way home, or there was something on those x-rays that both the doctors and I missed. So I take the day off and drive to meet you at the hospital.

Hannah is already there, of course.

She's helping you out of the hospital gown into your shirt, and I stop in the doorway, suddenly embarrassed. I've seen dozens of men naked before, but you're the only one who can make me truly blush when I see you shirtless. Not wanting to intrude on the moment, I step back, but you spot the movement and turn.

"Hey, Bones!" You sound much more alert and cheerful than before. I'm relieved to hear it.

"Hi." I linger in the doorway until Hannah has finished pulling your shirt down over your head.

"Here to see him off?" Hannah asks, smiling.

I nod, returning the smile. "I thought you might want some help."

You snort. "You think I can't get from here to my apartment without at least two people helping me?" you ask, sniffing.

"Of course she doesn't," Hannah teases, sending me a conspiratorial grin. "You can't get from here to the elevators without help."

I come further into the room, and together, Hannah and I make sure we have everything packed. There isn't much, really, just your gun, which I hold, and your belt buckle, which Hannah holds. Your suit was bloodied beyond repair and probably at the bottom of a trash chute somewhere. We're done before long, and you stand, a furrow between your brows.

"Can you walk?" I ask.

"Of course I can." The light edge to your voice is slightly forced. I know you hate sounding weak, so I don't press the issue. Instead, I hand you your gun, which you clip on the waistband of your jeans, and stand slightly behind you just in case you stumble. Hannah takes your arm on the other side, and together, we proceed out of the room, down the hall, and to the elevator. I notice you leaning slightly on Hannah and I notice her bracing herself to hold your weight, but I don't comment. I just give an imperceptible sigh of disapproval and wish you'd be less of an proud alpha male and let the nurses give you a wheelchair. But of course you wouldn't.

We make it down the hall and elevators without incident. I debate whether to accompany you to your apartment with Hannah or to simply go to work. There isn't much I can do for you at your apartment, is there? Hannah can settle you in well enough; I might as well get to the Jeffersonian and begin reconstruction of a set of bones that have been waiting for me since they arrived three days ago.

"Doctor Brennan?" a voice calls, just as we're crossing the lobby. I pause as a nurse hurries up to me, a clipboard in her hands. Behind me, I can feel you stop too.

"Yes?" I ask politely, giving the nurse an expectant look.

"Since you had the right to Mr. Booth's Medical Power of Attorney, you signed several forms to allow him into surgery," the nurse explains, flipping through the pages on the clipboard. I glance at them, puzzled, because I don't remember ever signing any forms. But the signatures are authentic. My memory of the events following the shooting is hazy, so I figure I must have signed the forms hastily, without thinking, in order to rush you into surgery. I think I vaguely remember holding a pen amid all the chaos and panic in the aftermath of your injury.

"Yes," I say slowly, nodding. "What about them? Is there something wrong?"

"I just need some confirmatory signatures," the nurse reassures me. "If you'd just sign here and here, we can let him go."

Giving you a glance, I nod and take her pen. After giving the papers a perfunctory glance, I sign where indicated and hand the forms back to the nurse, who scurries off and disappears around the corner of the reception desk.

I turn back to find Hannah regarding me with a strange look, her brow furrowed. Returning the stare evenly, I ask, "What is it?"

Hannah's gaze snaps away, and she shakes her head slightly. "Nothing. It's just…"

"Just?" you echo, leaning on her arm as you slide your eyes from me to her.

She gives the both of us an almost-embarrassed look. "Sorry, it's just…she has Medical Power of Attorney over you, Seeley?"

You look slightly surprised for a moment, as if you hadn't expected the question. "What?"

"Sorry, just curious," Hannah says, darting a glance at me. But there's something in her tone that makes me think it's more than base curiosity.

"He gave me the right a long time ago," I tell her. "After an injury at work. We thought it would be more efficient."

"Efficient?"

"He has Medical Power of Attorney over me too," I explain.

Hannah directs a questioning look at you, and you nod. "Yep, Bones has my back, and I have hers." You smile, but it's just slightly forced.

At the inscrutable look that passes between you two, I ask quizzically, "Is there something wrong?" Does this information change anything? I can't imagine how it would. It's a simple thing, a mutual agreement that makes perfect sense; after all, I know you, and you know me as well as anyone. It's a logical relationship.

"Nothing," Hannah mutters after a silence. She turns to you and asks, "Ready to go?"

"Been ready," you reply. "Bones, you coming?"

I offer a half-shrug. "I thought I'd head back to the Jeffersonian, actually."

A frown flickers across your face, and when you open your mouth, I fully expect a teasing protest. I restrain a smile and wait for your pleading, knowing that in the end, I'll concede. After all, I _do_ want to help you back to your apartment, if only to make sure you get your rest and the proper care. I figure that the bones can wait another day.

But instead, your gaze slides sideways to Hannah for a split second, and then you say, "All right then. I'll see you later, Bones."

You sling an arm around Hannah's shoulders and, with her help, step through the hospital doors and head toward the parking lot. Left standing in the lobby, I wonder why I'm even surprised and disappointed. It's been a long time since you've wheedled me into joining you in anything; these days, you just swallow my excuses and leave me alone. Apparently, today is no different.

With a sigh, I find my car in the parking lot and head off alone.

Two days later, I'm on your doorstop with a carton of hot pancakes in hand and the weight of my bag on my shoulder. I try to stare straight at your door rather than anywhere else, but my gaze is inevitably drawn to the patch of carpet I know you laid on. It's clean now, but I still remember the sheer redness of your blood on the floor. I stare at the ground and feel the flash of memories, your blood on my hands and the sharp, bitter taste of fear. I could have lost you. Right here, right in this hallway, I could have lost you forever. Even now, icy terror grips me at the thought of it.

"Bones?"

I look up to realize that you're leaning against the doorjamb and giving me a concerned look. "Booth," I say, managing to tear my eyes away from the ground.

You narrow your eyes at me, the way you usually do when you're trying to figure me out. "You okay? You look a little pale there."

I force a laugh and shake my head. "_You're_ the one who's looking a little pale, Booth. What are you doing up? You're supposed to be in bed."

You make a face. "Then who would answer the door?"

I pause. "Hannah's not here?"

You shake your head. "Nah, she had to go to work. I'm all alone." Pushing away from the door, you motion for me to follow you and head back inside. Shutting the door, I juggle the hot pancakes and my bag as you lead me to the couch in your living room.

"I didn't plan on staying," I tell you, setting down the carton on the coffee table. "I just wanted to bring you and Hannah breakfast." At your surprised glance, I explain hurriedly, "You need to keep up your health, and breakfast is a big part of that." I don't want to seem presumptuous, bringing you food when your girlfriend could easily have done the same. I just want to help out.

"Well," you say, kicking back on your couch, "Hannah isn't here, so do you want to share with me?"

I shake my head. "I should probably go."

Disappointment flashes across your face. "Aw, come on, Bones. Just sit here and eat with me for a couple of minutes. It'll be fun."

I really can't resist when you flash me that charm smile that always gets to me. With a huff, I set down my bag and take a seat next to you, opening up the carton and handing you a fork. I pour syrup out of a packet, rolling my eyes at your urging to completely drown the pancakes, and then we both dig in. You're noticeably more enthusiastic than I am, but by your fifth or sixth bite, your pace slows, and the smile dims.

I give you a worried glance. "Are you okay? Is it too soon for solid food?"

"I was shot, Bones," you answer, "not sick. I've been keeping food down for days now." You smile, but your face is a little too pale for my liking. I let you take a few more bites before closing up the carton and sticking it in your refrigerator for later. You grumble and complain but make no move to retrieve the breakfast.

There really isn't any reason anymore for me to stay, and the skeleton waiting at the Jeffersonian needs attention, but I can't bring myself to leave. It's been a long time since I've had you to myself, and as selfish and illogical as that is, I can't deny it. So instead of gathering my things, I find a seat next to you again and open my bag.

You shoot me a curious look. "Thought you had to leave."

"I can stay for a little bit," I say, pulling out a folder. "But I'll work."

You make a face. "That's no fun. Here I am, all shot and pathetic, and you can't even play with me?"

"What are you, a child?" I tease, grinning. "You can entertain yourself, Booth. I have work to do."

"Case stuff?" you ask, propping your chin up in your hand as you glance interestedly at the folder in my hands. "Can I help? I'm dying of boredom here."

I shake my head and wave you away. "I have to turn a chapter in to my editor by tomorrow."

"Your book?" Your eyes light up, and you grin, shifting closer. "Can I read?"

"You know you can't read," I retort, pushing you away with a laugh. "Not until it's finished, at least. Then you can buy it like everyone else."

"But I'm your _partner_, Bones," you whine, giving me that long, lugubrious stare that never fails to make me smile. With a laugh, I shake my head and lean down to pull out my laptop.

"I'm going to write now," I tell you sternly, "so stop distracting me."

"Distract you!" you laugh. "Bones, I'm your awesome _inspiration._ How could I ever distract you?"

"You aren't my inspiration," I protest. "My novels are based on my experience as a forensic anthropologist."

"And Andy?" you ask slyly, raising a suggestive eyebrow. "What sort of _experience_ are you drawing on when you write him? Come on, Bones, we all know who Andy is…"

"My character?" I suggest innocently.

You groan. "Andy's _me_, of course! Own up to it already, why don't you. It's about time you admitted you based him on me."

Opening my laptop, I roll my eyes and answer, "Well, he's not based on you, so stop saying that. I don't know what made you come to that conclusion—"

"Maybe the fact that he has a _gun_, and I have a _gun—_"

"—but you're clearly mistaken. He is a fictional character that—"

"—is awesome," you finish quickly, holding up a finger. Throwing up more fingers, you list, "And he's handsome, and talented, and a damn good shot…" Grinning widely, you say smugly, "You can't deny it. He is totally me."

"All those traits are fairly general," I protest. "They could describe anyone."

You level a skeptical look at me. "Really. Name one other person."

I pause and think for a moment. The problem is, I really _can't_ name a person. Not a single name comes to mind, and when you spot the furrow in my brow, you laugh aloud. "See? You can't name anyone, can you? Case closed. Andy is _totally_ not fictional. He's me. One hundred percent Booth-based material. You really should start crediting me with the character."

"You're mistaken," I sniff, but you just laugh again and shift closer until we're brushing shoulders. I pull up my latest chapter and turn slightly, tilting the screen so you can't see it.

I've only managed to get my train of thought together before you ask conversationally, "So, what's this chapter about? Am I shooting someone? Or are you being all squinty?"

I shoot you an annoyed glare. "I'm trying to _work_ here, Booth."

"And I'm trying to keep from getting horribly bored," you answer smoothly. Leaning your head against my shoulder, you ask, "So which is it? Who got killed? More importantly, who's the killer?"

"I'm not going to tell you the whole plot, Booth," I protest, shrugging you off. "You're just going to have to read for yourself."

"And where's the fun in that?" you grumble, but there's a smile in your eyes all the same. And abruptly, I realize that this is the first time in months that we've spent time together, time that doesn't involve a body and a killer. Well, not a real one, at least. But it's the first time in a long time since the teasing has come so easily, as naturally as it used to. _You're fixing it,_ I remember. Is this what that means?

Well, whatever it is, I like it. I'm desperate for it, for this feeling of normalcy and simple friendship. By the light-hearted grin on your face, you're enjoying it too.

"I'm not telling you anything," I repeat. "Although you can answer me one question: did you have a pet when you were younger, and if you did, what was it?"

"Yeah, a dog," you answer, grinning. "Why?"

"This case delves into Andy's background," I answer thoughtlessly.

"Hah!" you crow, clapping your hands together triumphantly. "That _completely_ proves my point. Andy's based on me. Years of pushing you, and you've finally slipped, Bones."

For a second, I pause, a slight smile curving my lips. I almost deny it, as I have countless times in the past. But looking at you sitting there, your charm smile turned on so blindingly, I suddenly have the urge to humor you. To make your eyes just a bit brighter. So, with a quiet smile, I admit simply, "Yes, he's you."

At this, you freeze, bafflement flashing across your features. You've pushed and teased and questioned for years, but I doubt you ever expected me to flat out admit to it. And now I have, and the expression on your face is too wide-eyed for me to do anything other than laugh. So I laugh, hard and long until you start laughing too, and then it's like it used to be. Simple. So easy.

"I can't believe you admitted it," you gasp, still chuckling.

"You just looked too pathetic for me to lie," I answer, grinning widely. The brightness in your eyes and the smile on your face make my heart so light. If only it could always be like this.

Eventually, we quiet down, and I get back to work on the chapter, ignoring you as you try to sneak peeks over the laptop lid. You're still smiling, but I can tell the morning has worn you out. Firmly, I order you to lie down, and you obey, grumbling good-naturedly as you do. Before long, you're snoring softly, your purple-and-green-socked feet tucked behind my back. As uncomfortable as that is, I don't move. I don't move because it feels so right, so wonderful to just be sitting here on the couch, writing my novel and listening to your even breaths. For a long time, I watch you and forget it all, forget Hannah and forget any complicated thing that ever kept me from you. I just watch you and try to remember the moment, the light streaming through your windows, the peace of the morning, the feel of your warmth beside me.

And then the perfection of it all is shattered when the front door opens, and someone bustles loudly down the hallway. Startled, I glance up to find Hannah walking down the hallway, tossing her keys on the table in the hall. She sets down her bags and starts to come into the living room, freezing when she spots us.

"Temperance?" she asks, raising an eyebrow. Her gaze shifts to you.

"He's sleeping," I whisper. "He's been sleeping for a couple of hours now."

"Oh." Her brow furrows, and she turns back to me, her lips pursed. "What are you doing here?"

I half-shrug, careful not to wake you. "I came this morning to bring you two breakfast and then stayed to make sure Booth got enough rest."

"All morning?" she asks, and there's a flash of suspicion in her voice. And then I realize for the first time how unprofessional this is, coming to your house and then spending time with you. How friendly it is, when all I've been trying to do since you came back with a girlfriend is to give you space and time. Not time for you to move on, since you obviously already have, but time for me to find my footing in the midst of all this change. And now we're eating breakfast and talking the morning away.

And you took a bullet for me. I won't forget that. I can't.

"Yes," I answer carefully. "All morning." Then, to try to erase that suspicion from her eyes, I add, "I was just about to leave. Will you make sure he takes his medication at three o'clock? He needs to be punctual about that."

Slowly, she nods, a friendly smile slowly spreading across her face. "Oh. Okay. I'll be sure to tell him."

Returning the smile, I close my laptop and slide it into my bag. Then, hoping not to wake you, I ease off the couch as quietly as I can. But the moment I shift away, you stir, your snores cutting off as you open your eyes blearily. "Bones?"

There's a note of panic in your voice that makes me lean down and touch your shoulder. "I'm here, Booth. I was just leaving."

You blink groggily. "No, don't—" Traveling over my shoulder, your eyes find Hannah standing there, and you cut off abruptly. Instead of finishing your sentence, you sit up with a wince and ask, "How long was I out?"

"A couple of hours," I answer. "Hannah's home, so I'm going to go." Giving your shoulder a pat, I pull my hand away and hope I don't look like all I want is to tuck myself in your arms, which is the truth. I force myself not to look back as I gather my things and open the door.

I'm surprised to find Hannah behind me in the hallway, her smile gone. She shuts the door behind both of us, and before I can ask anything, she says, "I know you and Seeley aren't just friends."

Stunned at her bluntness, I can only stare helplessly for a long moment. And then common sense kicks in, and I protest, "Booth and I were never more than friends. We just—"

"Stop it," she interrupts, her eyes dark and her voice as sharp as I've ever heard it. "Don't lie to me. You know my boyfriend better than I do. There's this way he looks at you, like a boyfriend is supposed to look at his girlfriend—no, not even that. He looks at you like a husband looks at his wife. And the way he woke up just now and said your name first, without thinking. He never does that with me. He never does any of that with me. You haven't been straight with me from the beginning, neither of you has. So you owe me this. You owe me the truth."

I consider her words for a long moment, half-frozen, half-afraid. Afraid because telling her the truth means confronting it myself. Telling her my feelings for you, saying them out loud, makes them real.

But they've always been real, haven't they?

"All right," I say bravely, taking a breath. "So I lied to you. Booth and I were never more than lovers, but he had feelings for me once. They were very short-lived, and we never engaged in a romantic relationship. He got over me very quickly." At her disbelieving look, I add, "He loves you now. He told me."

"And you?" Hannah asks, her tone flat.

"And me, what?" I ask, confused.

"And what about you? He had feelings for you. Did you ever have feelings for him?"

Oh. Oh, _yes._

"Yes," I admit slowly, unwillingly. "I did." _I do._ "But he's with you now. I want Booth to be happy. I won't interfere."

Her jaw clenching, Hannah retorts, "You've already interfered, Temperance. Every time you come near him, his eyes light up. Every time he gets a call from you, he smiles. I'm not stupid. You might not know what sort of effect you have on him, but I do. I see it. And I want you to stop."

I stare at her, bewildered. "Stop? Stop what?"

"Stop seeing him," she commands. "Outside of work, stop seeing him. Stop doing things like this, helping him at his apartment, bringing him breakfast. That's _my_ job now. I don't want to—" Her voice cracks, just a bit, and she pauses before pushing on. "I'm not going to lose him. He's _my_ boyfriend. He moved on, Temperance, and I think it's time you do too."

Angrily, she turns on her heel, and I stare after her, caught between indignation and anger at her order and sadness at the thought of you moving past me. Moving on without me. It's true, isn't it? You've created a life for yourself that I'm not part of, that I won't ever be a central part of again. Maybe it's time I accepted that, instead of trying to cling to the normalcy that we used to have.

Taking a short, angry step, Hannah flings open the door, and the both of us freeze.

You're on the other side, eyes dark, expression shuttered. There's something in your gaze that makes me shiver, but I can't tell what it is. Beside me, Hannah's glare has morphed into shock, then horror.

"How much of that did you hear?" she asks quietly, frozen in place. I stand there silently, eyes wide, wondering the exact same thing.

You give both of us a narrow look, evaluating, studying. Dark.

"All of it," you say, and I swallow hard.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: **Woohoo! I'm on a roll! Let's hope it stays that way. :)

Reviews are always appreciated. Hope you enjoy!

* * *

There's a long moment of pure silence as we each try to figure out the next move. Beside me, Hannah is stiff as a board, her eyes wide and guilty. You're standing in the doorway, eyes flicking from me to her and back. I'm just perfectly still, breathing evenly and waiting. Waiting and wondering if it's possible to deny everything, to compartmentalize and forget it all. How much of it did you really hear?

Finally, you move, taking a step forward, and both Hannah and I flinch backwards. Taking a slow, measured breath, I study your face, trying to read something there. What's the next move, Booth? _Is_ there a next move?

How much did you hear?

"I heard it all," you repeat, eyes narrowed. "You two really aren't as quiet as you like to believe."

I stand firmly rooted to the ground, wanting both to run and to speak. But I just freeze there and say nothing. I don't know what to say.

"Seeley," Hannah begins unsteadily, "this isn't what it sounds like."

"It isn't?" Anger flashes dark in your eyes, and you turn to her, your voice sharp. "Because it sounded like you just told Bones to stay the hell away from me."

There's a tense silence as Hannah fidgets and I shift uncomfortably. The last thing I want at this moment is to get between you two. The last thing I want is to give Hannah another reason to hate me and to make it more complicated for you. But there's that fierce look in your eye that makes me think nervously that a peaceful resolution to this is unlikely.

Something in Hannah visibly hardens, and she straightens. Chin raised defiantly, she demands, "All right, so I did. So what, Seeley? I'm your _girlfriend_, for goodness sake. I think I have the right to say that."

"The _right?_" you snarl at her. Shock crosses her face, and surprise shoots across yours. You probably hadn't meant to snap at her like that. Visibly, you collect yourself and continue, more calmly but still tensely. "Bones is my friend, Hannah. Girlfriend or not, you don't have the right to say that. _No one_ has the right to say something like that to her."

Despite the tension, despite the heat of the moment, I can't help but feel a warmth blossom in my chest. It's been so long since I felt like you were on my side, since you defended me like I was truly important to you. Now, standing there listening to you say something like that, I feel more like your friend than I have in months.

"I'm sorry," Hannah snaps back, hands on her hips as she leans forward in your face. "I'm _sorry_ I said something like that, and I know it's horrible, but I can't help it! I can't help it when Temperance visits you every other day, and when you don't have eyes for anyone but her when she's in the room!"

"That's not true," you protest, your voice losing some of its anger.

Leaning back and crossing her arms, Hannah shoots you a disbelieving glare. "Really. There're _so_ many things I can say to that, like how you always manage to talk about Temperance whenever we have a conversation, or how you stare at her when you think no one's looking. I know it makes me a terrible person, but I'm jealous, Seeley. I'm _jealous_ of the relationship or non-relationship or whatever you have with her. There's just…_something_ between you two that I can't touch, and that makes me nervous."

"Nervous?" you repeat slowly.

"Nervous," she reiterates. "It makes me nervous that you're like that with Temperance and not with me." With a frustrated huff, she says, "I've dealt with it for months now, Seeley. I've watched you two and tried to make friends. But now I need to know the truth—am I your girlfriend, or is she?"

At this point, I'm staring at you too, wondering what you could possibly say to her. Of course you'll say she's your girlfriend. Of course you'll try to fix things with her, because you love her. But you wouldn't cut me off in order to do so, would you? Not me. Not Bones.

I can't imagine you cutting me off.

You don't say anything for a long time, and that makes me more nervous than it makes Hannah. She knows she's your girlfriend; I'm still wondering where I stand in this new world of yours. Friends? Less than friends? Less than partners even? I resist the urge to move, simply standing there in one of the most agonizing minutes of my life.

But at last, you shift your weight and answer with a sigh, "You're my girlfriend, Hannah, of course you are." Your eyes are tired as you shake your head and add, "Bones and I are just friends. I don't know why you'd be jealous."

It hurts. I carefully hide my reaction to your words—we _are_ just friends, after all—and remain stoically silent. What was I hoping for? For you to renounce your love for Hannah and become the man you were the night you asked me to give us a chance? For you to foolishly declare that you never moved on and that you never will? When will I stop hoping so I can stop being disappointed?

Hannah shakes her head, apparently dissatisfied. "You really don't know why I'm jealous, Seeley?" She takes a short, pacing step toward you and then back. "Seriously?" Her eyes flash, and her voice rises suddenly, lashing out in abrupt fury. "You took a _bullet_ for her, Seeley. A goddamn _bullet!_ You don't do that for partners. Hell, you don't even do that for _friends._ You'd die for her in an instant, without even thinking. And you ask why I'm jealous? I'm jealous because there's nothing more serious than loving someone so much that you'd die for them. _That's_ how serious your feelings for Temperance are, and don't you dare deny it. Don't you _dare _deny it." Chest heaving, she glares at you and spits out, "_That's_ why I'm jealous."

You look as shocked as if she'd slapped you. I'm standing there just trying to breathe, wondering if it's true. I'm wondering if the highest form of loving someone is to be willing to die for them, and I wonder what it means if you've done it for me twice now. _Twice._

"Hannah…" you say slowly, seemingly at a loss for words.

"You took a bullet for her," she whispers, all the anger gone from her voice. She sounds almost miserable now, and she looks so small beside you. "You would've _died_ for her."

You stare at her helplessly for a long moment before turning to look at me. I shake my head, eyes wide, and stare back, because I don't know what to say either. So we both stand there, mouths closed, minds racing with so many thoughts and so many feelings but without the words to articulate any of them. Your dark eyes are on me again, and so are Hannah's blue ones, cold and accusing. She thinks I've stolen you, snatched you from her like a conniving home-wrecker. I want suddenly, desperately, to escape.

Gripping my bag so tightly my fingers hurt, I turn abruptly and mutter, "I have work to do." A safe comment, devoid of feelings or inner thoughts. I pray, pray that I can make it to the end of the hall without incident.

But of course you call out behind me, "Bones!" All those months, you let me go my own way, but tonight, when I truly want to leave, you hold me back.

I stop, not daring to turn around. "What, Booth?" Calm and collected, betraying nothing. Good.

"You're not walking away from this," you say firmly.

I close my eyes and wish you'd just let me go. I wish you'd never heard the stupid conversation in the first place.

"I think she should go," Hannah says coolly from behind me. "Seeley, you and I have to talk." From her tone, I can guess that it's going to be a long, trying conversation for the both of you, and that's something I definitely don't want to get in the middle of.

"I really should go," I insist, starting to walk again.

"You're not walking away," you call again, your voice tight. "I'll find you, Bones, and we _will _talk. I swear to God, we're going to talk about this."

I turn the corner and hear the door to your apartment slam behind you, Hannah's voice fading as I reach the elevators. Once inside, the doors securely shut, I take a deep, shuddering breath and lean against the wall, my grip on my bag still painfully tight.

Something has changed. Something big, and I'm scared of it, what it means. What it means for you, for me, and for our partnership.

I reach my car with your words still echoing in my head. Neither of us are walking away from this.

* * *

Nothing in the world seems capable of holding my attention for the rest of the day. I can't do more than stare blankly at the set of remains on the forensic platform. When I try to catch up on paperwork, I mix up the lab results so horribly that I'm forced to put the papers away before I make any more errors. The half-filled page of the next chapter in my novel sits there, untouched. I stare at it and remember the feel of your socked feet behind me.

You don't call. You don't send a message. It's silent, and it terrifies me. Not the visceral terror of being buried alive or the adrenaline-charged fear of being shot at. It's the deep, inherent fear of being left, of losing the only constant I've come to depend on in my life besides science and the facts. Despite what you said this morning, I'm still terrified that you love Hannah enough to agree to her demand. What if you decide to humor her? What if you _do_ decide to end our friendship?

What do I do if you leave me?

I don't know. I don't know, and that's what scares me. I'm not used to being dependent, but I've somehow become entirely dependent on you. On your happiness, on your support, on your companionship. I don't know what I'd do if that ended.

When I look up at the clock the next time, it's nearing midnight. To my surprise, I realize that I've been brooding in my office for hours with very little work to show for it. With a sigh, I decide that work is a moot point and that it's no use agonizing over you any more than I already have. Nothing I say now can change your mind, can it? It's your decision and yours alone.

What now?

I need to think. I've thought all day, but I feel the incessant need to think some more, to evaluate and re-evaluate until feelings fade into facts, until emotions are just pale memories. Until I can prepare myself for the eventuality of you leaving me, so that when you actually do, it won't hurt.

So I gather my things and leave the Jeffersonian at almost twelve-thirty, heading to the reflecting pool. It's the best place to think, so quiet and beautiful, so tranquil that it seems almost suspended from reality. With a quiet sigh, I settle myself on a bench facing the water and watch the reflected moon ripple.

You haven't called me yet. What does that mean? Have you made a decision? _Is_ this the decision? What happened to talking about this? What happened to not walking away?

_Calm down, Temperance. Nothing's happened yet._

No, nothing's happened yet. I shouldn't leap to conclusions. Maybe—probably—a choice like this takes time. Maybe you need a week. I should give you your space and remain calm. Rational. There's no evidence to act otherwise.

Still, I hold my phone tightly in my hand, willing it to ring. Even if you tell me the worst, at least I'll know. At least I won't be waiting and wondering.

It's silent.

With a sigh, I roll up my jacket for a pillow and stretch out on the bench, staring at the stars. It's so peaceful here, listening to the quiet lap of water against the side of the pool and gazing at the stars universes away. I close my eyes and just listen to the quiet, letting the silence wash away every thought I have.

I've fallen into a light doze when the sound of nearby footsteps wake me. Startled, I jerk up on the bench, heart suddenly pounding. Damn it. Could I really have been so stupid as to sleep outside in the dark on a public bench? Anyone could walk by and see me lying there, defenseless. Too easy a target to robbers and rapists.

As quickly as I can, I gather my things and prepare to bolt in the opposite direction of the approaching footsteps. In one hand, I flip my phone open, hitting your speed dial.

To my surprise, an answering ringtone splits the night silence, not even ten feet away. Breath caught in my throat, I whip around to find you coming out of the gloom, cell phone in hand.

You eye my defensive stance and wide-eyed look and say quietly, "Sorry. I didn't mean to startle you."

I let out your name in a short, relieved breath. "Booth. What are you doing here?"

You draw closer, walking slowly. There's a trace of anger and exasperation in your expression. "I could ask you the same thing, Bones. It's two in the morning. You could've been attacked, kidnapped, any number of things. What are _you_ doing here?"

I sigh. At least your protectiveness hasn't changed. "I was thinking."

"You can't think somewhere safer?" you ask sardonically. At my wary expression, you sigh and your voice softens. "Sorry. It's just—long day."

You certainly look as if you've had a long day. There are shadows under your eyes and a weariness in your gaze that makes me wonder how long you've been awake. When you move, there's a stiffness, an unusual lethargy. A grimace crosses your face, and you try to hide it.

I remember abruptly that two days ago, you were in a hospital bed. Not even a week ago, the doctors weren't sure you'd make it.

"Sit down," I order, not even bothering to mask my anger. You'd almost _died_, and now you're wandering around at two o'clock in the morning when you should be resting. I hate it when you take your wellbeing so lightly, especially since I was the cause of your injury in the first place.

Nodding, you sit down heavily, pain flickering across your face. Worried and disapproving, I take a seat next to you and ask, "Did you take your medication earlier? You should have taken some at eight."

You nod again. "'Course I did. I wouldn't forget that."

I twist around, glancing out in the direction of the nearest road. "Who drove you here? Don't tell me you drove yourself." Not when you've got a bullet wound in your chest.

You manage a half-smile. "And if I told you I did?"

"Booth!" I glare at you and shake my head. "You're still recovering. You're in no shape to be out of your apartment, let alone driving and walking around like this." Standing, I gather my things and say, "Come on. I'll drive you home."

"Stop." You grab my wrist and smile tiredly up at me. "Come back and sit down, Bones."

"Booth…"

"We're going to talk," you explain. "I want to talk to you." After a moment, you release me and give me an expectant look. "Are you still going to leave?"

That's not even a question. Of course I'd never leave you here alone. With a sigh, I set my things down again and return to my seat. "Talk about what?"

You level a deadpan look at me. "You know what."

I swallow. So you've made a choice. Will you cut off ties with me like Hannah asked? Or did you choose something else? I decide to ask you straightforwardly. "Are you going to stop being my friend?"

For a moment, you look as shocked as if I'd slapped you. You stare at me as if the thought had never occurred to you before, and for that, I'm glad. So you didn't choose that. A wave of relief rolls through me, and I wonder why I doubted you in the first place.

"So you won't," I murmur.

"Bones," you say, your voice caught between an incredulous laugh and pure disbelief, "how could you even _think_ that?"

I don't look at you as I answer, "Because Hannah asked you to, and you love her."

Now you really _do_ laugh, and I feel a flash of anger. You don't take my concern seriously. Even after all this time, you don't understand how deeply ingrained my fear of abandonment is. You don't know what it's like to go to sleep thinking you have everything and to wake up to find all that you believed in is gone.

At my dark look, your smile fades, and realization dawns in your eyes. "You thought I'd actually do it?" you ask incredulously. Shaking your head, you say, "First of all, Bones, she told _you_ to leave _me_ alone. Never said anything about me leaving you alone. And second, you're my friend. You're my _best_ friend. Bones, you're my person. I rely on you, and you rely on me. We're the center." Reaching over, you take my hand and add, "No one can change that."

"No one?" I repeat, resisting the urge to tighten my fingers around yours.

"No one and nothing," you promise. "I wouldn't leave you for anything in the world."

For anything in the world. You're staying with me. A wide, relieved smile breaks out across my face, and I let out a long breath I didn't know I was holding. "Thank you."

You smile reassuringly. "Of course. You should've known."

Yes, I should have. You've proved over and over again that you're on my side, and this is no different. I wonder why I've worried my whole day away.

"So should I drive you home now?" I ask, still smiling.

You laugh, but it fades quickly. "Not so fast, Bones. There's still more to talk about."

I frown. "What more is there to say?"

Instead of answering, you let go of my hand and stare out in silence at the pool. Suddenly apprehensive again, I watch the rippling water too, wondering what you want to say. Wasn't that it? Wasn't it a question of whether you'd comply with Hannah's demand? What more is there?

"Tell me the truth," you say at last, turning to look at me.

I turn my head too and stare back at you. "What?"

"The truth," you repeat. "Yesterday, Hannah asked you if you had feelings for me. I want to know the truth. Do you?"

I feel like you've hit me in the gut. For a moment, I'm so shocked I can't breathe. Of all the questions you could have asked, I never imagined you'd ask this one. Do I have _feelings_ for you?

"You don't have to answer right away," you say gently when you see the panic in my eyes. "It's okay." Reaching out again, you take my hand and nod. "Breathe, Bones."

"I'm breathing," I say, tearing my eyes away from yours and training them on the distant water. "Of course I am."

I could tell you. You must have heard me yesterday in the hallway, but it seems like you want confirmation. I could tell you right here what I feel, how much you mean to me. But I'm afraid. I'm always afraid.

And you know me, like you always do. "You're scared."

I shake my head automatically and move to deny it, but you're talking again. "It's okay," you say. "It's okay to be scared. And it's okay to say what you want too." You give me an encouraging look. "So tell me, Bones. It's okay."

I shake my head, studiously avoiding your gaze. "I don't like change," I admit quietly. "I don't want anything to change." And I don't want to be hurt. But I don't tell you that.

You're quiet for a moment before a half-smile tilts your lips up. "Yeah, change can be scary. Sometimes, change seems to turn your world upside down. But, Bones, change can be good too. Sometimes it's better to change."

I pause. "Are you saying things will change for the better if I tell you?"

"I'm saying, give it a chance."

What does that mean? I can't think of how this could change for the better. I don't know what would change at all if I told you the truth. But these are things I don't know, things I probably won't ever know. I can only give it a chance, like you said.

So I take a breath and say, "Yes. I told Hannah the truth. I did have feelings for you."

You take this in stride, nodding without betraying any hint of surprise. "And now?" you press. "Do you still…"

The truth. "Yes," I answer softly. "I do."

Now your composure breaks. You close your eyes and let out a shaky breath. "God, Bones. _God._"

I sit there nervously without a word, wondering what that means. Is it a good exclamation or a bad one? What sort of change is coming now?

You don't speak for a long time. Instead, you just sit there in silence, leaning forward with your elbows on your knees and your face in your hands. Every passing second makes me more and more nervous for your reaction, but I don't want to break the moment. _You don't have to answer right away,_ you'd said earlier. I'll give you that time now.

At last, with a heavy sigh, you open your eyes and reach over to take my hand again, but you don't say anything. So I ask slowly, "Booth?" When you still don't answer, I ask apprehensively, "Did that change something?"

It takes a moment, but then you smile. You smile sadly and squeeze my hand. "Yes, Bones. That changes things."

"For the better?" I ask, searching your face.

"I don't know."

A few seconds pass before I ask bravely, "_Why_ does that change things?" Holding your hand, feeling your warmth beside me, I wonder if I'm prepared to hear the answer.

You let out a heavy breath. "Because, Bones. Because I wanted to move on, but I couldn't. Because Hannah told you to stay away from me, and you would never do something like that. Because John Green shot at you and all I could think was that I couldn't lose you. Not you, Bones." You catch my eyes and exhale slowly. "Because I'm still your guy."

I feel my breath catch in my throat. Does this mean…? "Do _you_ still…?" I ask breathlessly, repeating your question of earlier.

"Yes," you answer simply, without hesitating. Looking at our intertwined fingers, you say, "Yes."

I'm too surprised to do anything more than slump back against the back of the bench. I stare at the water without seeing it, my head spinning.

"So," I say, letting out a breath, "now what?"

You give me that sad smile again and shake your head. "I don't know, Bones. I don't know."


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:** I am so excited, guys! I finally, finally managed to churn out another chapter. I know it's short, and everyone out there is probably giving me synchronized disapproving head-shakes right now because of how long it's been since the last update, but I really hope you guys enjoy this.

To anyone still reading this: please leave a review. It'd be nice to know what you think and if anyone is still interested.

* * *

We sit there for a long time. You stare out over the reflecting pool without a word, a somber look in your eye. I'm in no hurry to leave either because there's a suspended quality to the moment. Our hands are still intertwined, our breaths almost mingle in the cold night air, and we've said all that there is to say. A weight has been lifted, the truths have come out, and what we need to do now is think. Just sit and think before we move again and tip the balance.

What now?

You love me. You _love_ me. You still love me after all this time, after Hannah and all your declarations of love for her. I don't know what to feel about that. You certainly made a good show of moving on, and I certainly fell for it. All this time, I'd thought you'd truly found happiness, and I'd let go of any hope of being with you. But now…now I know that it was all a pretense. Shock hits me first, and when that melts slowly away, intense, intense happiness sweeps through me. You _love_ me. You, Seeley Booth, FBI special agent, with your cocky belt-buckle and your charm smile, love _me._ And for once, for the first time, we're at the same place at the same time. We're on the same page.

Except for Hannah. What stands between us now is not my fear. It's not your hesitation. It's your girlfriend, and that's so much more difficult to overcome than our personal difficulties. How do you overcome something like _that?_ You're the one who's adept at social interactions and relationships; you should know the answer. Or at least, I _hope_ you know the answer, because I am absolutely lost on what comes next. I am a scientist, a novelist, and a brilliant anthropologist. But you are the heart person. That's who you've always been.

When you finally do speak—my name in a whisper, "_Bones"_—it's so loud in the silence that has stretched between us that I jump slightly. Chuckling, you squeeze my fingers and say, "Sorry."

"It's okay," I answer, gazing at my hand in yours. "What did you want to say?"

You give me a half-smile and ask, "Do you remember the first time we met?"

I return the smile. "Of course."

"You hated me." You shake your head at the recollection, your grin widening.

"You hated me more," I counter. "You thought I was heartless."

"You thought I was brainless, and I'm pretty sure that's worse."

I study you in the darkness, the well-defined edge of your jaw and the intelligent light in your eye that I should have seen from the beginning. "Well, you proved me wrong."

You turn and meet my gaze with a smile. "You proved me wrong too, Bones, and I'm glad you did."

Yes, or we would never have gotten to know each other the way we have. I let out a little sigh of contentment and give in to the urge to snuggle closer to you. You accept me without question, reaching out to put your arm around me, and I lay my head on your shoulder.

"I wish it could always be like this," I admit softly, inhaling your masculine, uniquely-Booth scent.

"I wish it was always this easy," you agree, turning your head to press a kiss on top of mine. A little shiver of delight runs through me and I close my eyes, content to enjoy the moment.

"Do you remember the second time we kissed?" you ask suddenly, a laugh in your voice.

I smile without opening my eyes. "Yes. Caroline Julian forced us to."

"I'll admit, I was trying to figure out how to keep my hands off you," you say with a chuckle. "You were just so irresistible, even back then when I didn't know you as well as I do now. You were so damn gorgeous. And then Caroline gave me the perfect excuse to touch you, and I was so relieved. I probably would've lost control even if she hadn't made us."

Your compliments make me flush with happiness, and I answer, "Kissing you wasn't like kissing my brother."

With a laugh, you reply, "I _hope_ it wasn't. And I _hope_ you don't kiss your brother like that." After a moment, you add, with considerable less humor, "I hope you don't kiss _anyone_ like that. Anyone except me, that is."

Not that you kiss me anyway, I want to remind you. But I don't want to shatter the companionship of the moment, so I don't bring that up. Not yet, at least.

"Do you remember the first time you got shot?" I say instead.

You smile wryly. "Not something anyone would forget, Bones."

"You took that bullet for me too," I say quietly, staring at our hands. "Why did you do it that time?"

You sigh heavily and lean backwards against the back of the bench, tucking me closer to your side. "Because even then, Bones, you were the most important thing in my life. I couldn't lose you then, and I can't lose you now. You're still the most important thing in my life."

"So you got shot for me again," I reason out. When you nod, I take a deep breath and order firmly, "Don't do it again. I don't care what happens, just don't do that for me again. Don't get shot again. I can't…I can't sit in a hospital one more time and wait for news on you. I'm not…" I hesitate, then reluctantly admit, "I'm not strong enough to do that again."

"Oh, Bones." You kiss my forehead and rub your hand comfortingly up and down my arm, your eyes soft. "You're strong enough to do anything."

"_Promise_ me," I insist, giving you a severe look.

You return my gaze for a long moment before answering, "All right, I promise you I'll try not to get shot again."

"_Try?"_ I challenge.

Without wavering, you nod. "Yeah, _try._ I'll try not to get hurt again, but I can't guarantee it, Bones. I told you once that I'd kill for you and I'd die for you. That'll always be true. So if I can save your life, I will. I can't promise that I won't."

I look at you for a long minute, reading the sincerity there in your eyes. And it isn't just alpha-male tendencies I see there; it's a deep-seated protectiveness that grows from caring about someone so much you'd do anything for them. I'm touched that you feel so strongly about me, but at the same time, my heart drops a little. You'd still die for me. That's a very real possibility, especially with the barely-healed wound in your chest that reminds us constantly of that fact.

"Fine," I say finally, glancing away. "But you'd better try hard."

You smile. "Of course, Bones." You turn and look out again over the water and say, "Almost a year ago, we agreed to meet here, remember? And here we are."

I think for a moment and realize that you're right. "It's not exact," I reply, "but it's close." We're only a couple weeks off, in fact. I wonder at the coincidence. Is this what fate is? If we've run into each other so many times, fallen and struggled and hurt, but always come back together somehow—is that what fate is?

You seem to think the same thing. "It's meant to be, Bones," you say with a small smile. "The universe says so."

Once, I might have laughed at the illogic in your statement, but not anymore. The universe _does_ send signals, and I know that now. So I say instead, "I know." You just smile and tuck our still-held hands up to your chest, your other arm wrapped warmly around my shoulders.

Could we have imagined this, a year ago? Could we have imagined all that's happened? Cam's crisis, our return, Hannah's settling in, you getting shot…So many things have happened. So many things have _changed_.

I remember your words. Surely things have changed for the better?

"What happens now?" I ask again finally, truly at a loss. Will you leave Hannah, or will you stay faithful? Once you commit to something, you do it wholeheartedly, don't you? So what does that mean for us?

You sigh heavily, all traces of a smile gone. "It's complicated, Bones."

My heart sinks. I know that _complicated_ is a euphemism for _things won't work out the way you want them to._ Carefully keeping my expression neutral, I ask, "What does that mean?"

You're silent for a long moment. I sit there patiently, waiting in your embrace, until you finally answer, "It means it'll be hard."

Taking a breath, I decide to be as direct as I can. "So you aren't breaking up with Hannah?"

You shoot me a startled look. "Bones, I really don't want to sound callous, but of _course_ I'm breaking up with her. I can't stay in a relationship with her when I'm clearly in love with you."

_Love_. It makes me shiver to hear it out loud. But then again, that still doesn't erase the last few months. "You stayed for a long time," I reply evenly, trying to sound more objective than accusing.

"That was before you changed things," you say, holding up our hands. "Before you told me that you loved me too. That changes things."

I look at your long, warm fingers. "So tell me what we do now, Booth." You're the heart one. You know more about all this than I do.

"Now?" you reply with a long sigh. "Now…can you drive me to a hotel?"

I pause, thrown by your sudden change in topic. "What?"

"A hotel," you repeat. With a shrug, you add, "I'm kind of tired, so I think I'll get some sleep."

"You're not going back to your apartment?" I ask in surprise.

A dark look crosses your face before you give me a tired smile. "No, I'm not. Hannah and I got into a fight, and…Well, it just wouldn't be a good idea to go back now. So can you give me a ride?"

I stand and nod decisively. "Yes, but there's no way I'm letting you stay at a hotel when there's a perfectly viable guest room at my apartment. You're staying with me tonight."

"Bones…"

"No excuses," I interrupt, gathering my things. "You're injured, Booth. Someone needs to keep an eye on you anyway. So come on."

Still, you hesitate, so I give you a stern look and ask, "Do I have to explain to you the logic of my position? Because I will, Booth, and it's an argument I'll win. So are you going to come along or do we have to argue until you give up?"

With a groan, you lever yourself to your feet and sigh. "You never know, Bones. _I _could win an argument every once in a while, you know."

"Right." I smile and, after a moment of hesitation, take your arm. It's a bold move, I know, and I give you an anxious look out of the corner of my eye, wondering if this is okay. You meet my gaze evenly and smile, patting my hand on your arm, and I let out a small sigh before moving to walk closer to you.

The ride back to my place is comfortably quiet. I get to drive, of course, even though you did your fair share of whining. I figure I can go back and pick up your SUV tomorrow, or maybe I can send someone else to do it. Either way, you aren't going to be driving yourself around any time soon—or even walking around, for that matter. I can already imagine the headache-inducing task of convincing you to rest. Why is it you never choose to do things the easy way?

"You can take the bed," I say once we're in my apartment. "I'll take the couch."

At that, you give me an amused smile. "Come on, Bones. You really think I'm going to take that? I'm not kicking you out of your bed."

"You _aren't_ kicking me out," I retort, frowning. "I'm voluntarily relocating."

"Well, voluntarily _un_-relocate," you reply.

"That's not a word," I answer coolly. Taking your arm, I pull you bodily into my bedroom and pull down the covers of the bed. "At this point, you should remember that I can easily overpower you. So please take the bed and stop whining."

You snort. "Overpower me? Please. And I'm not whining. I'm just trying to be polite."

"Go to sleep," I order, pushing you down into the bed and going to my closet to fish out another blanket. "Tell me if you need anything."

When I hand you the extra blanket, you grab my wrist and somehow flip me into bed next to you. It happens so quickly that I just lay there for a moment, disoriented. Then when I realize what happened, I sit up quickly and shoot you a glare. "Booth! You could have pulled a stitch!"

"But I didn't." You favor me with your patented charm smile, and I'm annoyed at how quickly that melts my anger away. With a huff, I start to climb out of the bed, but you grip my wrist firmly. "Stay with me tonight."

I stare at you, eyes wide. "Booth…what are you saying?"

You chuckle softly. "Calm down, I'm not putting the moves on you or something. I just want to…hold you, you know? I've wanted to do that for a long time."

Your smile fades, and you look up at me earnestly, something in your eyes so warm and convincing that any refusal I had planned crumbles to pieces. With a sigh, I slide into bed next to you, not about to admit out loud that I've wanted you to hold me for a long time too. When you wrap your arms around me, I feel safe and happy, something I haven't felt in a very long while. How is it that we can be distant for months, but all it takes is a simple moment for me to feel comfortable with you again?

"You have to go back in the morning," I murmur, closing my eyes. "You have to take your medicine."

I can feel you smiling against my hair. "Yes, Doctor. Whatever you say."

"Now go to sleep."

"Bossy," you mutter, but it's said with a smile. I smile too and tuck one of my arms under the pillow.

I don't know how you're going—how _we're_ going—to deal with Hannah. I don't know exactly what's changed. But right now, breathing in your warm scent, I leave the uncertainty alone where it is.

* * *

When I wake up in the morning, you're lying very still on your back next to me, staring up at the ceiling. I rub my eyes blearily, but even half-awake, I can tell that you're in pain and trying to hide it. Your eyes and the tense edge to your jaw give you away, and I sit up immediately.

"We should go get your medicine."

You stare determinedly at the fan. "I'm fine."

After looking at you for a minute, I just stand up without a word and dig out some new clothes. I'd been too tired to change last night, and I need a shower.

"Don't move," I say sternly. "I'm going to wash up and then I'll drive you over to your apartment."

I step into the bathroom and wait for five seconds before glancing back out. Sure enough, you're slowly levering yourself out of bed, wincing as you go. When I clear my throat disapprovingly, you look up and raise your eyebrows. "Sneaky, Bones!"

"I just know you very well," I reply. "If you move, I will tell Sweets that you require therapy because of trauma from the shooting."

Your eyes fly wide in horror. "You're evil!"

"I'm serious," I retort. "Although I don't respect him, I won't have any qualms about sending Sweets after you."

"You can't do this to me."

"If it keeps you from tearing your wound open again, I'll do anything."

I'm very serious, and I know you can see it in my eyes. With a heavy sigh, you lay back down in bed and give me a pointed look. "Happy?"

"Very."

I take a shower, slip into the new clothes, and brush and blow-dry my hair quickly; I don't want you to be in pain and without medication for any longer than can be helped. When I'm done, I'm relieved to find that you haven't tried anything while I was occupied.

The drive back to your apartment is tense. You try to look comfortable and relaxed, but I can see the reserve in your eyes and hear the way you make a conscious effort to breathe evenly. I wonder what exactly happened yesterday after I left.

I don't want to see Hannah again, but I'm not willing to let you face her alone either. I'm part of the reason—if not most of the reason—that you two are arguing anyway. So I start to get out of the car with you, but you stop and shake your head. "Stay here, Bones."

"I can help, in case she needs an explanation—"

"It's all right, Bones. I'll handle this myself, okay?"

There's a quiet, commanding edge to your voice that you don't use very often with me. I recognize it as your FBI voice, the one you use with suspects sometimes. It means you're serious, so I slowly resettle in the driver's seat and warn, "If you're not out in fifteen minutes, I'm coming in."

You chuckle softly and shut the door. "My hero, Bones."

It's a while before you come back. I watch the minutes pass by and stare up at your apartment building, hoping everything is okay. After a moment, I pull out a forensic file to distract myself.

I'm calculating the force necessary to create that exact depression in the skull when the passenger door opens and you slide in, paper bag in hand. I stop and look at your face, searching for clues on how the interaction went. Your expression is carefully blank, and you glance over at the papers in my hand. "So what killed him?"

"Blunt force trauma to the back of the skull. What happened?"

You shrug. "We talked a for a little bit, and I got my medicine. We can go now."

There is no way that was all that happened, but I figure you will tell me if you want, in time. I pull out onto the road and start toward the Jeffersonian. I need to work today, but I refuse to leave you home alone. Knowing you, you'd push yourself too far and end up hurting yourself even worse. So I decide I'll make you rest on the couch in my office while I look over reports. As long as I keep an eye on you, I can make sure you keep safe.

We're halfway to the Jeffersonian when you look over at me, your eyes dark and slightly worried. I catch the hesitance in your gaze and ask, "What?"

You're silent for a long moment. Then you say, very casually, "Bones, what do you think about me moving in?"


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: **Here's a long chapter for all of you lovely readers. I love you guys :)

**Disclaimer:** It's been a while! Bones isn't mine, in case you forgot.

Please leave a review! College applications are Not Fun, and reviews would seriously light up my day. **  
**

* * *

I just about swerve into the wrong lane, I'm so surprised. I shoot you a look of blank shock, and you immediately backtrack. "Sorry, sorry. I know how you are about these things. What I meant was, can I stay with you for a little while?"

It takes a moment for my racing thoughts to calm. We just reached a conclusion on our feelings barely twenty-four hours ago; you can't seriously be asking to move in. Things are changing fast, and change unsettles me. You know that. You've always known that. So I quell the immediate urge to slam down mental barriers and retreat into cold logic. Instead, I say carefully, "What do you mean?"

You turn to look through the passenger seat window, gazing at the scenery as it passes by. Then, very quietly, you say, "I asked Hannah to move out."

I take a deep breath and stare straight ahead. "What?"

"I thought you _wanted_ me to break up with her." You sound puzzled.

I give you a flustered look. "I—I do. I did. I just didn't expect it to be so soon. We just talked last night, after all, and I would understand if you needed time to process everything. Change can often be disorienting, and it's best to let a little time pass so you can think rationally and avoid hasty decisions."

"It wasn't a hasty decision." You glance over at me and reach out to take my hand. "I love you, Bones. I knew what I had to do, and I did it. It wasn't easy and it wasn't pleasant, but I'm glad I did it. Now am I going to be homeless while Hannah gets her stuff out, or can I crash on your couch? I don't want to be around while she's getting her things together."

I shake my head. "Why do you even have to ask, Booth? And your use of 'homeless' is a hyperbole; you could easily rent a hotel room for the duration of Hannah's packing."

"I could just as easily stay with you," you reply with a smile, and I inwardly agree. I want to have you close anyway, so leaving you in a hotel room alone when you've been so recently injured is out of the question.

"Fine," I say with a small smile. "You can stay. But I insist that you take the bed again. The couch is bad for your back."

"If that's the case, I insist that you take the bed with me," you return, grinning. "Last night was the best night of sleep I've had in a very long time."

I can't disagree with that, so I don't even try.

I spend the rest of the day in my office filling out various papers and filing reports. Cam has given me leave to stay off the forensic platform under the pretext of paperwork; we all know, though, that she's worried about you and that she's relieved to have someone watching over you. Unexpectedly, you don't make too much trouble. You sit restlessly on the couch for about an hour and a half, occasionally commenting on the magazine I've given you and making me smile. Before long, however, your face starts to pale, and I make you lie down. You're asleep within moments, and I take the blanket slung across the back of the couch and cover you with it.

I run into Angela when I go for a drink of water.

"Is Booth okay?" she asks, her brow creasing with worry. "Should he be moving around so much? I mean, he practically just got out of the hospital."

"I made him lie down," I tell her. "He's resting in my office right now."

Angela nods, then focuses her sharp gaze on me. "How are you holding up, sweetie?"

I'm confused by her question. "Fine. I wasn't injured. Why wouldn't I be fine?"

She gives me _that _sigh, the one that tells me I've missed the point. "I mean emotionally. Booth _did_ get shot for the second time, and you were a witness _again._ That can't be easy."

"Hannah saw it too," I reason. "She's much less used to these situations than I am. You should be asking her if she's all right."

"Hannah's not my best friend. Really, are you okay? If you need to talk, I'm here for you, Bren. You know that, right?"

I look up into her bright, warm eyes and nod slowly. Of course I know that. Angela has been my go-to person for a long time, even before _you_ were my go-to person. For a moment, I want to tell her. I want to tell her everything that has happened and what has happened between you and Hannah. Best friends do that, don't they? They confide in each other even the secrets they aren't sure they are supposed to share. I am still a confused about the situation, about where I stand with you and what exactly will happen with Hannah, and for a moment, I want to consult Angela, who seems to have boundless experience with relationships. She can offer an unbiased perspective on the issue.

But in the end, I decide against saying anything. For one thing, this remains a problem—_is_ it even a problem?—between you and me, and I don't know if you want anyone to know yet. For another, I remember that Angela isn't exactly objective when it comes to a romantic relationship between me and you. She firmly believes you are my soul-mate, my very own FBI knight or fairytale prince, and I'm fairly certain she would go to irrational lengths to make me believe it too.

So I just smile and say, "I know. Thank you."

Angela gives me the skeptical eyebrow but doesn't press. I return to my office to find you still sleeping soundly, your soft snores the only noise in my office.

Moving in. You're moving in. I know it's only temporary, but it still scares me. Last week, we were barely speaking beyond partners, and now you're going to be living with me for a while. It's too much change, and my natural instinct is to shut down and retreat into unshakeable logic. The only problem is, logic here dictates that you stay with me. With you hurt, someone has to watch you, and since Hannah probably isn't willing to anymore, that leaves only me.

I can only hope Hannah doesn't take very long packing her belongings and making arrangements. Then we can slow down and make slow, rational decisions together about where we go from here.

You wake up around six o'clock in the afternoon, groaning as you sit up. Rubbing your eyes blearily, you ask, "Bones, how long have you been buried at that desk?"

"I'm not buried under anything," I reply. "But I have been sitting here all day."

You nod and yawn. "I'm sorry, Bones, but I'm just really tired. You probably won't get any good conversation out of me until I sleep for a week."

"It's understandable," I answer. "Your body is recovering from your injury. And it is physically impossible to sleep for seven straight days." I close the folder I was working on and rise to put it away in the filing cabinet against the wall. "I've done enough work for today. Give me a moment, and I'll take you home."

You nod, your face drawn and tired, and I mentally calculate how long it's been since you took your last pain pill. We walk slowly out to my car, and by the time you've fastened your seatbelt in the passenger seat, your eyes are nearly closed again.

I glance at your gray sweatpants and t-shirt and shake my head. "Booth, we should stop by your apartment to get some clothes."

"No," you say, eyes closed and head leaning back against the headrest. "I'll be fine. Hannah's the one moving out, after all."

"What if it takes longer than expected? You can't stay in those clothes." I turn onto the road and automatically start for your apartment. "Don't worry; you stay in the car while I go up."

"That's not smart," you murmur, and I'm about to ask you what exactly happened with Hannah, but then you're asleep again. With a sigh, I continue driving in silence, listening to your soft breathing along the way.

There's a light on in your apartment when we get there. Part of me is apprehensive because I don't want to face Hannah; a greater part of me is curious. I want to know what you told her that would make her leave so abruptly.

I take the key out of your pocket and leave you sleeping in the car, making sure to lock the car doors. I am uncharacteristically nervous as I ride the elevator up to your floor. I am not afraid of Hannah, but I do pity her. I know what it feels like to lose you, and I wish what I've gained hadn't come at her expense. But you have only one heart, and, like you told me once, the heart wants what the heart wants.

I knock loudly on the door and wait, key ready in my hand in case Hannah doesn't answer. But she does, an instant later. She yanks the door open hard, her eyes bright with hope and relief. Her gaze hardens immediately when she spots me standing there, and she pulls the door closed until there is only a narrow opening left. "What do you want?"

"I want to pack some of Booth's clothes," I reply calmly. "He wanted to stay with me until you're done packing."

"Of course he wants to stay with you," she sneers, her eyes dark with anger. "Probably didn't even wait to jump into your bed, did he?"

"Booth and I haven't slept together," I tell her stiffly. "He is merely a guest at my apartment until you are gone. He can't stay at a hotel because someone needs to make sure he doesn't overextend himself and exacerbate his wound. It's a logical decision that has nothing whatsoever to do with our relationship."

"_Logical_. Of course it is." She turns and flings the door open. "Make yourself at home. It'll probably be your home soon anyway."

I ignore her caustic tone and glance around the apartment. There is a box of clothes in the living room but little else. I wonder if a reporter like Hannah has many belongings to pack up.

She goes straight to the bedroom and calls, "His clothes are in his drawers."

I follow her there and look around your bedroom. I've seen it maybe once or twice during the course of our partnership, but never like this. It's messy and dark, the covers of the bed tossed and clothes littering the ground. Hannah makes no move to pick up some of the more conspicuous garments, like the lacy red bra lying at the foot of the bed. Some part of me understands that she wants me to be jealous, and some part of me is. But I remember at whose apartment you're staying in tonight and very calmly cross the room to the dresser.

I find a black duffel bag and stuff in two pairs of jeans, boxers, socks, and the black FBI shirt you like to wear and I like to see. Hannah watches me with narrow eyes, her arms crossed tightly across her chest. I can tell she's biting back words, but by her furious gaze, I can guess what she wants to say to me. I can't blame her, really. I _have_ taken you away from her, albeit unknowingly. But I'm not sorry for it. You are mine—I know that as surely as I know all the names of the bones in the human body.

I stop by the front door, just before closing it behind me. "I'm sorry, Hannah." Not for what happened, but for her. I know what she gave up to come here for you, and I'm sorry she's going to have to give things up again and start over.

She looks at me for a long moment, and I hold her gaze. Slowly, the fury melts out of her frame, and her shoulders slump. She sighs quietly. "I know. I'm sorry too." She crosses her arms again, but the gesture is more tired than angry. "Please, just leave."

I gladly shut the door and head down the hall, the duffel bag on my shoulder. When the elevator doors open, I'm surprised to see you on the other side, hands in your pockets and your head down.

"Booth."

You look up and smile tiredly. "Bones. I told you that you didn't have to come back."

"I got your clothes," I say, holding up the duffel bag. "We can go now."

You put your hand on the doors to keep them from closing. "Did you…did you see Hannah?"

I nod, and when I don't elaborate further, you ask, "How was she?"

"Fine," I answer because I don't know exactly how to describe her.

"She didn't yell at you or anything, right?" you ask, looking me up and down as if there would be evidence from a fight. "You're okay?"

I give you an exasperated smile. "I'm fine, Booth. I just went to get your clothes. It's not as if I ventured into the Amazon rainforest unarmed and unprepared."

You roll your eyes and step back to allow me to enter the elevator. "I'm sure there are more dangerous things than that, Bones."

"You have no idea how dangerous a rainforest can be, do you?" I ask as the elevator begins to descend. "Besides the possibility of contracting malaria, there is a myriad of dangerous creatures in such an environment. Also, there are hundreds of species that scientists have yet to identify, and any number of them could be lethal."

You grin. "I see your point. But those are things that _could_ happen. How about wandering unarmed and unprepared into a serial killer's den?"

"That would certainly be dangerous," I agree solemnly.

"But improbable," you muse.

I frown. "It's happened before."

"It won't happen again," you answer seriously. "It's improbable because there is no way I would ever let you just wander into something so dangerous alone."

"What if you had no choice?" I counter. The elevator doors ding open, and we step out. "What if the serial killer held hostages and wouldn't release them unless I walked in?"

"Then I'd go with you."

"And what if I was instructed to go in alone?"

"I'd still go with you."

"You'd risk the hostages?"

"I wouldn't risk you."

I don't know whether to be touched or unsettled that you would be willing to risk innocent lives for me. You sense my unease and smile gently. "It's all speculation, all right, Bones? Nothing like that's going to happen. Promise."

"You can't promise that," I say, leading the way to my car.

You grin widely, boyishly. "I'd promise you the moon, Bones."

"That's highly illogical. It would be impossible to fulfill that promise, and in any case, I don't want it. What would I do with an astronomical object?"

Your smile only widens as you slide into the passenger seat. "It's a romantic thing to say, Bones. You know, it means I'd promise you anything."

At that, I can't help but smile back at you. "I would promise you anything within my power too."

You pull the seat belt around and say, "At this point, just promise me a long, uninterrupted night of sleep, and I'll love you forever." I give you a look, and you add hastily, "Not that I don't already, of course. It's another saying, Bones."

I just shake my head and smile as I turn the key in the ignition.

That night as I lie in bed, staring at the wall with your warm chest against my back, I ask quietly, "Booth, are we going to start a romantic relationship?"

I can feel you tense against me. "I kind of thought we already…uh, what do _you_ want, Bones?"

I think about that for a moment because I'm not exactly sure. I want you with me, I know that much. But a romantic relationship? There's something very real about that. It means commitment, and commitment means that there's a chance that I'll be hurt. You wouldn't hurt me on purpose, I know that, but you've done it before, unintentionally. I don't like feeling helpless, and being in a relationship with you means trusting you with not only my professional life but also my personal one. Am I ready for that?

I know I've been silent too long when you say quickly, "We won't rush things if you don't want to, Bones. We can take it super slow."

I laugh softly. "Booth, you sleep with me in my bed. I don't think friends or acquaintances do that." After a brief moment of hesitation, I say, "We can be in a romantic relationship."

When a long minute goes by without an answer, I add uncertainly, "If that's what you want. If you don't want to, I have no objections either—"

You cut off my sentence by rolling me over and kissing me hard. When you break away, you're smiling, your eyes bright with happiness. "Bones, of _course_ that's what I want. I just didn't expect you to agree so quickly."

"It's a logical decision," I answer, feeling warmth wash through me when you pull your arms tighter around me. "We've already discussed our feelings, we know we get along well, and we've worked out the kings. A relationship fits next in the natural progression of things."

"Worked out the _kinks_," you correct. I can hear you smiling.

I shift slightly in your embrace. "Oh. I always thought that expression made no sense."

You kiss my earlobe, sending a shiver through me. "I love that about you."

"My failure to grasp common sayings?"

"You never failed anything in your life, Bones." Another kiss, this one just under my ear. "You just…misunderstand."

I lie there for a moment, reveling in the sensation of your lips on my skin. Then I take your face in my hands and press a kiss to your lips. You deepen it immediately, your eyes closing, and I lean into you with a quiet sigh. It is so easy, this intimacy. We've weathered through many things together, most of them difficult to overcome, but somehow, the physical aspects have always been much easier than the emotional ones. Even in the beginning with your guy hugs, that has always been the case.

You end one last, languid kiss and close your eyes, laying back against the pillow. "I really, really want to do more, believe me, Bones, but I'm just super tired right now."

I'm not that disappointed. To tell the truth, I'm somewhat relieved; I don't think I'm ready for more either. I just snuggle close into your side and reassure you, "I don't mind. Anyway, strenuous activity might tear open your stitches. We should wait until you're completely healed."

You open one eye, and your lips tip upward in amusement. "If I can wait that long."

"_I _will," I say firmly. "I don't want to risk you getting hurt again. And if you can't wait that long, well, you could always find a more willing partner who isn't so concerned about your welfare."

You smile and murmur, "I was kidding, Bones. You know I'd wait for you forever." You kiss the top of my head and add, "Now go to sleep."

* * *

We quickly settle into an efficient routine.

I usually wake up first and take the shower. By the time you're awake, I have your pain pill and a glass of water ready. Then I settle you in front of the TV, listen to you complain about how bored you are, and pretend to sympathize. In truth, I'm glad you aren't going out into the field just yet; you're still healing, and the memory of you getting shot is still fresh for both of us.

After I make sure you're comfortable, I go to work. I am fairly certain that I used to be more eager to come to the Jeffersonian every morning and examine a new set of remains. Now, even when I am deeply immersed in a file or in reconstructing a skull, part of my mind is on you, wondering what you're doing and if you've taken your medicine.

Somehow, it isn't as much of an intrusion as I'd expect. After all, thoughts of you have invaded my mind at inopportune moments before; it only makes sense that now that we are romantically involved, these instances would escalate. Of course, it doesn't do much for my concentration at work, but I find that I like thinking about you.

I wonder often if you're thinking about me too.

Hannah leaves without a word to either of us a week later, but neither of us mentions you moving back into your own apartment. You grab more clothes from your closet and make sure the door is locked, and then that night, you're in my bed again.

I realize very quickly that this could become a permanent situation, not the temporary one you pitched. I also realize that I am not panicking about the news. You essentially living at my apartment is not taking it slow in any culture's definition, but I am mostly relieved you won't be leaving just yet. Surprisingly, I…like having you with me at night and in the morning. You fit perfectly there, like this is how it was meant to be all this time.

These past few nights, I've been coming home to find you up and about, either cooking something for dinner or just pacing with restless energy. You'll be ready to come back to work soon enough, and Hacker has already given you a case file to look over with the condition that you remain in bed as you read it. I'll be glad to have you back in a professional capacity, but I also want you to take it easy, and I know that's not how you do things.

Today when I get home, I find you dressed in your work suit, busy tightening your tie and checking your gun in the holster at your hip. I just freeze in the doorway, wondering what on earth you think you're doing.

You spot me standing there and offer a sheepish grin. "Hey, Bones."

I drop my bag and shut the door quickly. "What are you doing?"

You shrug. "I cracked the case, Bones. I was reading the file, and I figured out that it was the sister-in-law that did it. Things didn't add up, you know? I'm just going to arrest her."

"But you're _injured—"_

"I'm better," you interrupt, sending me a reassuring look. "Really. Hacker signed off on it. He's having another agent meet me there anyway, so I won't be alone."

I glare at you. "Booth, you were shot barely a month ago. You still have to attend physical therapy for the injury. You're in no shape to be going out into the field."

You give me a pleading look. "Bones, I'm _dying_ in here. There's nothing to do except get back to work. I promise it's not dangerous. The murder was an act of passion, so she doesn't have a history of violence. Plus, she's about a foot shorter than I am. I think I can handle her."

"You can't handle anyone right now," I argue, hating how lightly you take your physical wellbeing. "I can't believe Andrew would allow this. You need to rest."

"Bones, _please_." Your eyes widen in that pitiful, irresistible gaze that others call the puppy-dog look. "If you'd been injured, exactly how long would you have stayed in bed? I'm sure you'd be jumping at the first opportunity to get out too."

"And you'd be in my position, forcing me to rest," I reply evenly. We both know it's true; we've been through that before.

But still. I can imagine how you feel, trapped in the apartment for a dozen days on end with nothing to do but watch TV and answer the phone when it rings. Your slightly hopeful, slightly sad look isn't helping either.

So I sigh heavily and say, "Fine."

You break out into a wide smile, pulling me into your arms and kissing me hard. "_Thank_ you. I was going to pull my hair out if I had to rest on the couch for another minute."

"_But_," I say quickly, holding up a finger, "you're taking me with you."

The smile fades rapidly. "Bones—"

"No arguments, Booth. I have greater mobility and stamina than you at this point, which makes me more useful in exigent situations."

We hold each other's hard stares for a long moment. When you sigh and glance away, I know I've won. I also know that you truly don't believe this arrest will be even remotely dangerous; if it were risky, you would have been more adamant in your protest.

"Fine," you say. "But stay behind me."

I scowl, remembering abruptly you pushing me out of the way of John Green's bullet. But you have your eyebrows drawn and your lips pressed together, so I know I won't win this one. So I just nod, all the while calculating the correct amount of leverage it would take to push you out of the way in case anything happens.

By the time we reach the house, it's dark, and there is a government-issued SUV parked across the street. The other agent. I'm glad he's already here. When he sees us getting out of the car, he jogs over quickly and raises an eyebrow. "Hacker told me I'd be meeting you here, Booth, not you and your girlfriend."

"Doctor Brennan," I introduce coolly. "Booth's partner."

The agent's eyes widen. "_You're_ Doctor Brennan? Oh, well, I'm, uh…I'm sorry about what I said. But still, it's just supposed to be me and Booth. I don't want you getting hurt."

"Booth assured me that it would be a routine arrest," I reply, not budging. "And if there _is_ an altercation, I am an excellent shot. Booth just won't give me a gun."

"Because we all know what happened the last time I did that," you mutter.

The agent gives us both a skeptical look but shrugs. "Okay. Doctor Brennan, I'm Agent Calloway. I've been staking out the house for fifteen minutes now. The lights are on, so I'm pretty sure she's home. She doesn't live with anyone, so if you hear anything other than the girl, be alert. Come on."

"Lead the way," you say graciously, and I follow behind both of you.

The house is well-lit and quiet, and I glance around at the surroundings. It's a fairly nice neighborhood. I wonder what drove this woman to commit murder, and a small smile curves my lips. Even my thoughts are a testament to how much you've changed me; before I met you, motive was something I couldn't have cared less about, much less spend time contemplating. Things have changed.

Agent Calloway knocks loudly on the door, his stance relaxed as he waits. You look mostly relaxed as well, but I notice that you've pushed your suit jacket to the side for easy access to your weapon. _Just precautions_, I think. It's good to see that you're taking this seriously.

The door cracks open to reveal a woman's thin, pale face. I can see instantly that she has not slept well and that she is frightened. A guilty conscience, you'd say. I edge a bit closer to you, just in case.

"Yes?" she asks, her voice as faint as she looks. It's hard to believe she could even hit a man, much less kill him.

"Agents Calloway and Booth," the other agent announces, showing her his badge. "FBI. Danielle Knox, you're under arrest for the murder of Glen Tanner."

She stands there for a trembling moment, her eyes wide. She looks so innocent and terrified in that moment that I almost turn to you and ask to see the evidence. But no, you'd never arrest someone without irrefutable proof, so I curb the urge to question you and just watch as Danielle Knox shakes.

"Please come with us, ma'am," Calloway says gently, holding out a hand.

She stares for another long moment before nodding slowly. "All right. Let me get my purse."

"Hey—" Calloway starts, but she's already gone, disappeared back into the house.

"Let her get it," you say. "But keep her in sight."

Calloway nods and pushes open the door further, entering the house and glancing around. I follow you inside, feeling the brush of warmth as we step indoors. Danielle Knox is in the living room, picking up her purse from the table. I look away for a moment to admire a painting in the hallway.

It's because of that that I miss you drawing your gun and saying sharply, "You don't want to do that, Miss Knox."

I snap around immediately, eyes wide, and find myself staring straight down the barrel of a gun.

Danielle Knox aims it first at me, then you, then Calloway. Her eyes are wide, her breath shallow. She's panicking, and she doesn't seem to know who to shoot. She finally settles on you, the closest to her, and her arm steadies.

In that moment, I know what it means to feel your heart stop. As irrational as it is, I can feel it happen in my chest, that moment where the blood runs cold in my veins. Everything in me seems to seize up, and I can't breathe or think. There is a gun pointed straight at you, and suddenly it's familiar, entirely too familiar.

I hear Calloway order, "Drop the gun, Danielle," but my eyes are fixed on the gun and you. Your shoulders tense, your finger tightening around the trigger. Everything feels horribly slow and horribly real.

"Bones," you say, very slowly, "get behind Calloway."

Not behind you, of course. The gun is pointed at you.

I don't move. I don't think I can.

"Don't talk!" Danielle snaps, her hand trembling. She's shaking so badly that I'm terrified she'll accidentally pull the trigger.

"Drop the gun!" Calloway retorts, his voice so loud and harsh that I feel my heart squeeze. I've learned from you over the years, and I know that people with guns don't respond well to open hostility. My heart is in my throat as I watch Danielle shake, her breathing quick and shallow.

"I'm not going to jail," she whispers, her eyes dark with fear. "I won't go to jail for that bastard. He deserved to die."

"Put that gun down," Calloway orders. "Put it down or I'll drop you."

She glares at him, her eyes suddenly blazing. "I think I can shoot this agent here first," she answers. "I'm not a bad woman, agents. But Glen deserved to die, and I won't go to jail for ridding the world of an evil son of a bitch."

You take one slow step to the side, closer to me. I know you're trying to protect me again, and it makes me furious. Once again, you're putting yourself in the line of fire to protect me. When will you stop doing that? When will you stop being a white knight, a fool?

"Don't move!" Danielle shouts, pointing her gun straight at your chest. "I'm warning you!"

You just shake your head very slowly and say, "Danielle, my name is Seeley Booth. I'm not the enemy, okay? Let's just talk for a moment."

She stares at you for a long moment before taking a heavy, ragged breath. "Talk about what?"

You continue in that soothing, low FBI voice of yours. "You see this woman next to me? Her name is Temperance Brennan. She's my partner."

Her flinty eyes shift over to me, clearly suspicious. "So?"

"She's a forensic anthropologist," you say, your voice calm. "She's a scientist. She works with bones." Your lips quirk up slightly and you add, "That's her nickname, you know. I call her Bones."

"So _what?"_

You hold up a placating hand. "I'm just trying to tell you that she's not a threat. She isn't armed. So let's leave her out of this, okay? How about you let her go out the front door, let her leave?"

I open my mouth to protest instantly, but Danielle beats me to it. "_No!_ For all I know, she'll just go get more cops. No, everyone's staying right here." She takes a shaky breath, and her gaze darts from me to you to Calloway. "I want…I want you to get me out of this. Let me get away. I'm not going to jail."

"Like hell—" Calloway starts, his face red, but you say quickly, raising your voice without shouting, "We can do that."

I stare at you, wondering what you're doing. "Booth," I whisper, "we can't just let her escape. She's a murderer."

"Bones," you say without looking at me, "don't talk."

_Don't talk._ Just like before, with John Green. I trusted you then. Your quick glance says I should trust you now.

I take a shallow breath, closing my hands in fists to stop my fingers from trembling.

"Listen," you say evenly, taking a step toward Danielle, "here's the deal: you put down that gun, and then we'll talk, okay?"

She backs up rapidly, gesticulating wildly with the gun. "Stand back! Don't take another step toward me, or I'll shoot a hole right through you!"

"Booth," I whisper, my lungs constricting. I don't think I've ever felt so terrified in my life. I see again and again in my head you crumpling to the ground, a bullet in your chest. I can't do that again. Not ever again.

You ignore me. "Fine. How about this? You let my partner here out, and you can keep us FBI agents. Bones isn't really a cop, you know. She's just a civilian like you. You can keep us as hostages because we're more valuable, but you let Bones out, okay?"

This time, Danielle hesitates, obviously considering your words, and I feel another surge of anger through my fear. I hate you for doing this.

"I'm not leaving you," I say, my voice strong and firm.

"Bones," you say, "don't argue, please."

I clench my fists and stare helplessly at the black barrel aimed at your heart. "Booth, you promised."

You glance quickly over at me, then back at Danielle. "That I'd _try._ I also promised myself I'd protect you, and I'm not about to break that one."

Calloway says lowly, "Doctor Brennan, he's right. If you have a chance, you should get out. You're not an agent, after all. You're just a regular old citizen, just like Danielle here."

At that, Danielle nods slowly, her wild eyes calming slightly. "Yes, I don't have a problem with you. You can go."

I don't move. "I'm not leaving my partner."

"Bones, please, just go." Your eyes are dark with worry. "Just get out of here."

I know I should leave. The smart choice would be to leave. I can call Hacker, tell him about the situation, request backup. You can hold here until more agents come. But I can't do it. I remember what happened the last time someone pointed his gun at you, and I can't let that happen again. I meant what I told you in front of the reflecting pool that night—I can't go through you being shot again. It could be over so quickly, and I suddenly have so many things to say.

I take a step forward, bringing myself level to you. "Don't point the gun at him."

Your eyes widen, and you throw out an arm to bar my way, your other hand still pointing your gun at Danielle. "_Bones!" _

I start talking without consciously meaning to. "He was shot a month ago. Right here." I tap my own chest, remembering with sharp clarity how I pressed my hands against the bullet wound and tried to hold in all the blood. "Below his fifth rib."

Danielle's eyes are fixed on me now, and you're shooting me a furious look, but I ignore it. "It nicked his lung. He suffered a spontaneous pneumothorax. That means his lung collapsed."

The confusion on her face is clear. "Why are you telling me this?"

My mouth is dry. "Because he almost died, and I want you to know why." I don't know where these words are coming from, but they sound right.

Danielle's gaze is riveted on mine, her grip loosening around the gun. "Why?"

I swallow hard. "Because he pushed me out of the way and saved my life. And right now, I can see that he's about to do the same thing, and I won't let you shoot him."

Everything in you is tense as a wire. You don't look at me, but I can feel your fear all the same, and I know you're not afraid for yourself or Calloway—you're afraid for me. That's the way it's always been, but I just want you to care about yourself. For once I want you to think about yourself instead of others.

To my surprise and wonder, Danielle actually lowers the gun slightly. She gives me a wide-eyed look and asks, "He really saved your life?"

I nod slowly, and suddenly, somehow, I know what to say again. "There are some men like Glen in the world, but there are a lot more men like Booth in the world, good people. You might have been justified in killing your brother-in-law, but you can't justify shooting my partner. He's the best man I've ever known."

I see your throat bob as you swallow. A moment passes before you say gently, "That's right, Danielle. Listen to her. You killed Glen because he was a bad man, wasn't he? He hit your sister and sometimes he hit you too. But _we_ aren't bad people. I have a son. Agent Calloway has two daughters and a niece. Bones…" You swallow again and glance over at me, holding my eyes. "Bones has a family too. We're just trying to help you, Danielle. We're going to bring you in and see how we can help, all right? We aren't the enemy."

She stares at us all for a long minute, and we stare back. My pulse is thundering in my ears, and my hands are clenched into tight fists again. My eyes are glued to Danielle's gun, still pointed at you. For that long, suspended moment, nobody breathes.

Then Danielle lets out a tiny sob, and she sags in on herself. You step forward quickly and very gently take the gun from her hands, and it's like I can breathe again. The world rushes back, and I see Calloway pulling handcuffs from his belt, hear you murmuring quiet words in Danielle's ear, feel my own hands trembling with the remnants of fear and adrenaline.

The instant Danielle is cuffed and Calloway takes control of her, you envelop me into a crushing hug. "God, Bones, you okay? You're shaking."

I make a conscious effort to stop. "I'm fine. Are _you _okay?"

You let out a long breath. "I'm okay. But what you did there was stupid, Bones. You should have gotten out when I told you to. I can't believe you did that."

At that, I inhale sharply, angrily. I want to yell at you. I want to demand why on earth you would risk your health and safety just to go make what you called a _routine arrest _when any other agent could easily have done the same thing. But I'm unused to simply venting my feelings, so I shut the emotion away behind familiar walls and give you a cool stare.

You meet my eyes for a long, hard moment before looking away and sighing. "Let's just…let's just go home, okay? Calloway can take care of things here."

When we get back to my apartment, it's dark outside, and we're both tired. You take one look at me and realize, thankfully, that I want to be alone. You strip off your jacket and head for the shower, unbuttoning your shirt as you go. I kick off my shoes and slip into bed, too tired to change.

It was close. Too close. I could have lost you again, so quickly. One pull of the finger, and you could have been gone. If Danielle Knox had so much as flinched…

I pull the covers up close and listen to the distant sound of water from the shower. Of course our jobs are dangerous, yours more so than mine. I know this. There is always the chance of getting injured, the chance of dying. Logically, living in close proximity to danger over the years of our partnership should have accustomed me to such possibilities. Illogically, I am still terrified every time I see you facing down a gun. I still have not been able to accept the fact that one day, you may be injured so badly that even the best surgeons in the world can't save you.

I can't see you threatened again. It makes me emotional, illogical. Today, even when I knew I should leave, I had stayed. I'd been irrational, and that scares me. I am used to acting with complete control, with calm and cool consideration of every consequence.

I should have realized long ago that there is nothing about you that is logical.

I lie there for a long time, seeing Pam Nunan, then John Green, then Danielle Knox drawing their guns on you. It's only when the bed dips slightly that I realize you've come out of the shower and gotten dressed.

When I don't turn to look at you, you ask, "Are you mad at me, Bones?"

"No," I deny automatically, my back to you.

"Then why won't you look at me?"

I turn and meet your eyes steadily. "I'm fine."

You towel your still-wet hair and sigh. "Yeah." Then your eyes harden, and you say, "You know, I'm mad at you too, Bones. I can't believe you stayed. You should have just gone when Danielle let you."

My eyes narrow. "And leave you there alone?"

"I wasn't alone. Calloway was there too."

"She was pointing the gun at you."

"And she just as easily could've been pointing it at _you_." You sigh again and catch my eyes. "I hate putting you in danger, Bones."

I give you a stoic look and reply, "I can take care of myself."

"And I can take care of _myself_. You should have just listened to me, Bones." You lock eyes with me and say seriously, "Promise me, Bones. Promise me you'll listen to me when we're out in the field, no matter _what_."

"You promised _me_," I remind you. "You promised that you wouldn't put me through that again."

Now your brow furrows in confusion. "What? But I wasn't hurt."

"But you _could_ have been." The anger is back now, and I don't try to force it away. "You put yourself in that situation, Booth."

You shoot me an incredulous look. "It's my _job_, Bones."

"Anyone else could have done it!" I argue. "You're not completely recovered—"

"The same thing could have happened even _after_ I've recovered. Face it, Bones, it's what we do."

Your logic makes sense, but I'm still angry. "Andrew shouldn't have let you out into the field again so soon. It was a hasty and illogical decision."

Your eyes narrow. "Are you saying I should be wasting time lounging on the couch all day? Bones, I'm ready to go back to work. I barely ache anymore, and I'm weaning myself off those pain pills. I'm fine."

I shake my head vehemently. "You aren't. Average recovery time for a wound like yours is three to six months. You haven't even covered half of that time."

"I don't _need_ to," you insist, annoyance flashing across your face. "I told you, I'm fine."

"And I'm telling you that you _aren't_," I retort heatedly. Why don't you understand? How can you not see that you need to stay in bed to recuperate? It's not as if you twisted your ankle; your life was seriously threatened, and you don't just leap back into work after that. You can't be going out and doing things like confronting killers. You just can't.

"You're being overprotective," you mutter.

Somehow, that makes me even angrier. "So what if I am?" I snap. You look up in surprise at my sharp tone, but I feel no need to moderate it. "Booth, you were _shot_. I watched you bleeding out right in front of me for the second time in our partnership. Both of those times, you could have been gone so quickly, and I—I—" I let out a long breath, frustrated that I can't find the words to express myself.

Your expression softens, and you shift closer so you can brush your hand against my cheek. "Bones, I'm fine. I can take care of myself. You don't have to worry about me."

"Then you don't have to worry about me either," I reply, still glaring at you. "I don't need you to protect me all the time, Booth." I take a breath and avert my eyes. "I need you to protect yourself."

You smile slightly. "I'm not going anywhere. You know that right? I'm not going to let anyone come between us, not even some psychotic serial killer, if it comes to it."

"You can't promise that," I mutter.

"No, I can't. But I can try."

When you kiss me, the last of my anger slips away, leaving me simply tired and sad.

"Booth," I whisper, wanting to say so much but not knowing how.

"Yeah?"

"I just…it was close today."

You nod. "I know. Too close."

I hesitate, then press on. "When I saw her pointing that gun at you, I realized…I can't…I can't _lose_ you, Booth." I need you, in the deep, inexplicable way that one person needs another. I don't know what I'd do without you. Losing you to Hannah was different—you were still there, physically, and you still told me jokes sometimes and functioned as my steadfast, protective partner. Losing you to death—that's something I don't know how to do.

You seem to understand what I'm saying. "I can't lose you either, Bones. You know that."

I still can't rid myself of the image of Danielle Knox aiming her gun at your heart. If her finger had slipped, it would have been over, just like that. You would be gone.

You see the fear in my eyes and sigh very softly. "Bones, you know our jobs are dangerous, and they'll probably always be dangerous."

I sigh too, smoothing out the wrinkles of your shirt. "I know. I just wish…"

"Me too," you say quietly. "But we can promise each other that we'll be careful, okay? That's the most we can promise."

Slowly, I nod. "I promise to be careful. You should promise to look after yourself too. Stop being a dominant alpha male that constantly needs to prove himself."

At that, you smile. "I promise."

Then you kiss me, and we don't speak again for a long time. After you fall asleep, I touch the bandage just below your fifth rib, remembering again the feel of your hot blood pumping through my fingers. Then I reach up and feel your strong, steady heartbeat against my palm.

You're alive, and I'm alive. For now, for today, that's enough.


End file.
